


They That Are Told To Survive

by Firedawn (Serpyre)



Series: Death Is So Red [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Career Pack Study, Careers (Hunger Games), Careers Have Issues (Hunger Games), Gen, Heavy Angst, Hunger Games, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe - Freeform, Recovery, Revolution, the alcraiz's deserved better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 88,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28463517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpyre/pseuds/Firedawn
Summary: It had been barely two months after the Games that the Capitol made the announcement. "To remind the Districts that there is no reprieve from retribution for the First Rebellion's sins," it had boomed, "The 56th Games will commence immediately."(Or, a study of a Career pack, amidst a growing revolution.)
Series: Death Is So Red [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944745
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue.

**Jordyn. District 6.**

The Games begin two months after the 55th ends.

There was a justification provided: as always. _To remind the Districts that there is no reprieve from retribution for the First Rebellion's sins,_ it said. _The 56th Games will commence immediately._

Jordyn's heart grips as the metal words scorch through the speakers. Even though everybody around her scoffs, and then they go on scraping porridge slop into their trays, the dread knots her throat together.

She ascends the metal steps, up into where her war room is. Her mind pounds wildly.

Their unilateral decree isn't so much that there was no Victor the last time. Or, at least: not truly. It isn't so much for retribution, either. They'd quite like to suppress all sorts of revolutionary sentiment; they'd quite like to push up a front, too, push up a threat. They've put the First Rebellion in there; as if they'd do that, they'd quell what was burgeoning.

Jordyn eyes the Games, again-once-again. Traces her fingers over the map conjured up, now; she hasn't asked how District 13 had acquired the Arena prototypes, yet, but she figures it's a question she'll be able to deal with later.

It's something special, this year: the soft-dusk sun, dousing the tranquil forests in amber as if they'd reflected the glow of the Capitol's gold coin. Flora and fauna prance across the earthly yolk, but they're soft, all soft as if noise would scatter the forests into ashes. Jordyn's stomach twists together, and her heart throbs in her throat, because if she forgets the yellow and the animals and the warmth it looks—it looks just the same.

There's a force field, still, cast over the Arena. She traces her fingers over and lets her breathing slow. It's shimmering invisibly, crackling intermittently, just like last year. And Jordyn wonders just where it can short.


	2. The Replacement and The Master - Gamemakers.

**Head Gamemaker Elkavich. Before the Reapings.**

* * *

"Are they the confirmed Careers?"

Her assistant nods back at her. She blinks rapidly as if there were tears she was warding away from her eyes. Elkavich scoffs and waves her off.

She glances at the Careers. Echoing behind her is the girl's pathetic scampering, and she waits till her steps stop resounding before she draws up the Careers.

It's almost too dramatic. They've had to take security measures, with the small flare-ups of dissent throughout the Districts. Caging his family was barely anything to ensure his loyalty. It did not warrant tears.

Ahead of her, Snow stands. Hands clasped, his head tilted up. His gaze fixes upon her, shards of white-ice that drag through her skin. Waiting for her error, she expects.

Elkavich ignores him. She draws up the projection. They swirl in front of her: that list of six confirmed tributes. Faces of all facets stare back at her; some grinning, a few solemn, some desolate, maybe. First: she brings up that District One girl.

Her reflection shimmers back at her: pale and haughty, eyes like they've emptied and left demons within. Snow raises one, careful eyebrow at her wavy black hair, oily-so that there's barely strands but a mass that is made out; and Elkavich steels herself, because that broken look, that gaunt jaw, the certainty in her stance — oh, she knows what he is thinking. She can see the similarity.

"This isn't a repeat of Madison Saros, is it?" Snow states. Madison Saros. That so-called Career that ruptured the 55th Games. That made a joke of the Careers by allying with the Outer District tributes and making some half-baked rebellion because she wanted to get free with her girlfriend. Guthrie was killed for what she'd stirred up two months ago.

Elkavich looks at this District One girl. This girl who had been approved, complained, or spoken of grudgingly to her by various One Victors for her life in training from eve to dusk, from twilight till morningsun; she practically lives in the Arena already. A name recommended by sponsors, floated on by various high-profile individuals, offhand comments from government officials that had visited One and had seen her.

Dior Marini. A girl that hadn't had a break from fighting since the announcement for the Games. A girl that was already winning speculative sponsors from those who had already met her from high-up in the Capitol. A girl that had broken the legs of her closest competitors a week ago.

"No." Elkavich feels something twitch the corner of her lips. "She is no Madison Saros."

She pulls up the District One boy next. Chrys Gerhart. He isn't a powerhouse typical of District One males; of mass and muscles and nothing more. He is leaner, than they usually are, but relatively round their same height, and with a growing buzzcut, it's as if he was pre-emptively preparing for the Games.

Elkavich's lip twitches. Unreluctant. Snow appreciates those kinds.

"Top of his class. Likes to pick fights with everybody else in his year group. We've had multiple comments about Chrys from our scouts and sponsors."

"And his background?"

Elkavich blinks. She hadn't expected that to be Snow's query. "Chrys comes from the poorest suburbia of One. He's on a scholarship for the Academy."

"Will that be a problem?"

_A problem?_

Something uneasy sloshes in Elkavich's stomach, but she quells it. _What was happening?_

But Snow's eyes bore in her, and so she shakes her head.

"Chrys trains just as much, if not more, than the Dior. We know that the Games are what he wants."

Snow stares at her if he expects more. Elkavich swallows.

"We'll conduct a background check."

And only then does Snow's chin tilt down, slightly. Hurriedly, she swipes for the holographs for District 2. Her eyes stay on Snow, as he takes in the District Two boy.

Snow is not impressed.

"A child."

"Yes," she says, forces her nerves to still, as the twelve-year old's sunken, bone-protruding face shimmers back at her. "Kiernan Alcraiz."

There is a moment where Snow fixes his eyes on her. His head tilts. Elkavich clenches her hands. _Do not shake. Do not look down. Do not act different. Do not show anything._

"Maeve Alcraiz's brother."

She nods. Relaxes. "Yes," she says, and she can breathe again. "Maeve's younger brother."

Amusment, Elkavich thinks, works upon Snow's red mouth. "Is he mentally able?"

Elkavich had expected that of Snow. She had run a thorough check on him. They were not having a repeat of last year; especially not after Maeve had killed her District Partner upon some ridiculous whim of her brain.

It's practically unbelievable that anyone was able to make such a disaster of a game. Small wonder Guthrie was killed.

"He is. We've made sure of that. Physically, he is afflicted by chronic asthma; but he is mentally stable."

A tick twirls up Snow's lips. He's satisfied, Elkavich reassures herself. He is.

"I expect that he will volunteer. How have you insured that?"

"Upon his mother's life," Elkavich says, smoothly, carefully. She had hoped that Snow would've liked her scheme. "And he has agreed."

Snow doesn't even give her a glance, now. His eyes are upon the projection. "Good. What of our female tribute?"

Elkavich's limbs sag as she conjures up the District Two girl.

Hera Dalenka is a statue. She smiles as if she's free from the world, and stares at them; in her perfect slenderness, her chestnut skin practically glowing upon the projection, and the classic District Two finish of strength carving her lean muscles.

Snow tilts his head, slightly, again.

"And is she mentally able?"

Of course.

"Yes."

"Mentally stable?"

Stable enough. No recorded history of mental conditions.

"Yes."

"Mentally strong?"

How would she know?

"Yes."

Amusement crawls over Snow's lips. Despite herself, Elkavich's stomach tightens. Snow's fucking with her now.

"Is there anything else of note about her?"

Elkavich takes in the projection. Of the girl's winning smile; typical of a Victor, she thinks, befitting of one. Hera is the epitome of the perfect District Two girl. Charismatic and ruthless, she expects. Ferocious. Able. Vicious. Nothing like the disaster that was Maeve in the last Games. What is there to note?

Instead, Elkavich swipes away. Out conjures the District Four boy; long hair ponytailed up, jaw set and shoulders drawn back, but his eyes are curiously blank.

"Rhodos McNamara," she says. She remembers that name—the McNamaras. They were one of the wealthier families in District Four; they frequented in Victor afterparties since the 25th Games, after Mira Evantide's victory, when Elkavich was a mere escort accompanying those tributes. She remembered them: they'd always drank six or seven glasses of champagne, as if they couldn't get enough of it, and were always amusing to speak to, what with their long rambles of hidden gems of investments and of striking riches _eventually again_ and whatnot. But they'd disappeared from District Four Victor afterparties since, despite the District Four win in the 32nd Games, the year she was promoted. Their presence lacked since—and hadn't yet arisen, not even with the reigning District 4 win-streak, beginning with Kani Fairchild in the 49th Games. It is quite delightful, Elkavich decides, that their son would be participating in the Games.

"What are you thinking, Elkavich?"

"Nothing," she says, and swipes the projection once more.

Althea Ivory. Her tanned skin glimmers upon the screen; and her chestnut hair rolls in waves; uncontrollable masses of tides, untamed and powerful. Her blue eyes are lightning, and a cold intensity burns within them, and Elkavich feels her stomach tighten.

Those eyes. They were familiar.

"Didn't her brother make a pathetic showing?"

Of course. Talon Ivory, that promising Career boy that doomed District Four's win streak in the 53rd Games. Recklessly arrogant and ridiculously out-of-touch. He made for good entertainment.

"And you still chose her to volunteer?"

You. Elkavich's nerves jumble. It's a subtle accusation, one which slathers her in ice. Guthrie, she remembers, that drag of steel and his gurgles, devoid of the static frizzes when it were from TV, his hands clutching his bubbling neck and later, when he could no longer hold his own head upon his neck anymore, they'd sawed off the rest and upholstered him on a pike. She had watched the scene, of all excruciating six minutes of it, upon Snow's orders.

She eyes Althea. Powerful. But not like Dior. Charismatic. But not like Hera. But what she has is her eyes.

"She'll be entertaining," Elkavich says at last. "If she's anything like her brother."

At the lift of his head, the hologram blinks off. And Snow strolls towards her, step after step after step. And the ice in her veins jab at her.

"I expect you to do better than the previous Gamemaker had."

Elkavich lifts her head to meet his. "I will."

(Guthrie's eyes, convulsing in their sockets, stare back at her.)

"I will not tolerate a repeat of the 55th Games," he says, and her skin chills over, tides of ice, through her. "Do you understand me, Elkavich?"

"Yes."

Snow's red mouth pull sideways, like a crack in pale ice. "That is upon my judgement. Upon how well you demonstrate with your games."

A prick, another, a coldness, a tide, rolls down Elkavich's skin. And in that moment, as Snow's steps resound away — she does not see the glory. She does not feel the power. She does not even feel the prestige.

No. She only remembers Guthrie.


	3. The Strong and The Wretched - District 1.

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

He cycles to the Academy every day.

It's his mother's old bicycle that he mounts; he'd take it, in its usual place right beside his house's ditch. He'll whiz through the slums; the rankle of the jostling chains louder than the squelch of the tires itself. He'll pass by his neighbour's rotten-down houses, all pruning in that familiar dirty-coal stench; it's the most tolerable part of his ride. Unfortunately the shortest, too.

(There are barely any poor in District One.)

The next part of his ride's where Chrys takes a stab at ignorance. It's the picket-fence houses; it's the refined apartments, slabs of them stacked on each other, smoke spewing from the top, windows flickering to life with electricity. His sight shifts with every minute, and it's as if he watches a transformation: houses become double-deckers and then triple up into buildings; apartments flourish in distinct low-blue-green colours and multiply like Outer District families creating children.

This part's longer: ten minutes. And sure, Larimar's not half as irritating as the prim-and-proper rich kids; but maybe they'd be more decent if they'd just stop _acting_ like they were oh-so-prim-and-proper like they were making out a performance for all.

(There were decent ones from Larimar, of course. Like Nemesis. And Clay. He'd usually be less irritated, if today wasn't… today.)

He slams harder on the pedal. Whizzes through Larimar. But, unfortunately, that means that he'll just get _there_ quicker. All lined up for his eyes.

Nothing good comes out of Opulence. The fact that their buildings were fortified with marble and quartz should've been a dead giveaway. Or the fact that all of their mansions were ten times the size of the largest house back at Coal. Or even, maybe, that they were so desperately trying to live up to their sector name; milky-sparkling refractions against the early morning, like they wanted to blind any and all plebeian trespassers to their aristocratic land.

Unlike Coal or Larimar; he slows near Opulence. He eyes them, in long looks—at the sheer audacity of their constructions, glinting like polished crystals. At their lives; luxurious, comfortable, _pampered_. At the kids in there. And Chrys scoffs at himself.

He'll see them again today. For the thousandth time?

_But it'll be worth it._

And so Chrys turns away from the gleaming constructions of Opulence; and directs his bicycle towards the Training Academy. _Remember what you're here for. Remember who you're doing this for._

_Rememeber what day today is._

He presses so hard upon the pedal that it lets out an unholy screech, the noise of a tortured demon: and he pushes through.

He has to.

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

"Are you ready?"

She closes her eyes. Feels her fists tighten, her nerves go taut, and then she relaxes herself. Opens her eyes. The girl in the mirror is cold, now. That man that stares at her from the stairwell considers her.

Dior waits. He'll leave soon, now. He has to. He always does. Dozens of appointments a day. He'll go soon.

He strolls into her room. Dior focuses on the mirror. His features are far clearer, now. She doesn't recognise his beard. It's shaven. But scabby. It practically pricks her. And his scent. Animal-leather pervades her skin. It envelops her. It's practically too much. Like a garotte around her neck.

Like the Games before that.

_(A pull. A scream. A cannon blow, no, no, not—not that.)_

"That was a question, daughter."

She opens her eyes. Stills herself. She doesn't realise that she'd closed them. Her fingers are shaking. She forces them down.

(His snarl. _Stop whining. Nothing bad's going to happen to you. Don't be a brat._ )

Leonard considers her in the mirror. Sees how her fingers shake, probably. She seethes.

She wants to snap.

"I am," she tells him. She is. Does he not see her? Clothed in black; shimmering, there, because of the silver studs that crest the waves of her dress. Leonard's eyes narrow as he takes it in; and good, it should.

She's still surprised herself, that it still fits. For a thing that had been bought two years ago. But nothing really changes.

Nothing has changed. She is perfect. She is ready. The Games are ten months early. But she is ready.

Like she was the Games before that.

_(A blow, a roar, a laugh. Tighter, Lorine, come on, finish her off with a snap.)_

She fixes the opal necklace on her neck. Looks at the girl in the mirror. Cold. Uncompromising. Powerful. That girl is ready for the Games.

_That girl should have existed two years ago, you fucking brat._

"Is there anything else?"

His eyes stay on her. Finally, Leonard tilts his head up. "I like your dress," he says, finally. "I'm glad that you're able to use it today."

As if they hadn't spent years preening over her. Watching her. Leonard and Verica. Frowning. Your throw is off-mark. You'll need a better stance. What do you think you're doing with that blade? Don't be an idiot. Don't hold it like that.

As if it had not all been for this moment.

Dior cocks her head sideways. She looks at herself in the mirror: grand, as grand as the best Victors of one were; strong, nights and days of training and her results showed; confident; like Madison Saros last Games, but without being so pitifully pathetic; powerful; like the District Fours, able; unlike…

Two years ago, she would not have recognised this her.

So: she does not say anything back to him.

She had been waiting for this moment, too.

* * *

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

There's a sort of envious patheticness that exudes through the room. It's there in whispers, pathetic attempts at derisive language; _why did they choose him?_ It's present in glares, in ones they shoot from the shadows to where he's busy demolishing the training dummy in front of him; those ones that speak of jealousy, of desire, but all too wrenched-up in their stuffy glory to admit otherwise.

(Aside from the Games, which is in a day; that is why he came to train. There is something about seeing those that are lesser-than; those that work less, those that try less, those that think that they'll be victorious just because they're from Opulence; _oh_ , upstaged by poor _Coal_. There's something about that which he relishes.)

They eye him, like ravenous, bitter wolves, and he pretends not to see them. He spots Nemesis in the ring of the training arena; she's fighting against Clay. She wields her dual-blades and Chrys takes a break to watch.

(Clay, poor guy, he's being beaten into an absolute _pulp._ )

A smile eats as the corner of his lips. Which he quickly eases away from his face when he approaches her. Clay's shouting his mercies, and Nemesis tilts his chin up with the tip of her blade; she's heaving quiet breaths, but there's a brilliant smile that dashes across her face like she'd just won the Games herself.

His heart swells.

(Which he quells.)

"Was Clay really _that_ emasculating to you?"

Nemesis's grin stays on her face. "Was it that easy to see?"

A moan from their friend emits from the ring. Nemesis' eyes go wide.

"No! Clay, I'm kidding!"

Chrys laughs. "You're seriously taking that back?"

"Chrysaor, _shut up._ "

Nemesis, bless her soul, _actually_ ducks back into the training ring to check up on Clay's welfare. It's funny as it is adorable, and his heart pushes upwards. He forces it down with a grin and a call: "You're the one who fucked him up like that, not me!"

But Nemesis doesn't call him a name, like she usually does, or fake a scoff like she could actually scoff, or do anything like that. Instead, Nemesis's head whips towards him; and her blonde hair spills over her shoulders, like a golden mane.

"You're the one volunteering."

A quiet blanket falls over them. It's a little suffocating. He knows that the eyes of the rest of the kids are on him. Nemesis's _eyes_ are on him. Solemner; sadder; colder; that brink of light that had always danced in her eyes, a warp of candent candles, gone.

"I'll come back. You know I'll," and it's supposed to be _I would,_ but the words are thick in his throat.

(He will come back. He is stronger than the rest of them; he is the best of the best. The Capitol had picked him themselves; he will triumph. He'll come back in riches and in glory; bring back something worthy for his family, bring something for Nemesis and Clay, too, because even though they're both Larimars they're not too well off; and he'll show up those staring at him now, yeah, a kid from Coal can upstage you.)

He'll win it all.

Nemesis smiles. Is it pained; or his he projecting?

"Yeah, I do," she says, softly. She climbs out of the ring; strolls towards him. Until she's cocking her head up at him; so close he can feel her breath on his skin. She jabs a finger in his chest. "I know every kid from One does a gazillion of promises like this, but. You're gonna win. I know it."

His heart swells again. He looks at Nemesis and forces an easy grin on. It's needed, to get the next words out of his mouth.

"Hey; anything happens; look after my siblings, yeah?"

Nemesis's eyebrows raise. "Didn't know you were that kinda guy."

Chrys thinks about his family; his siblings, Melissa and Emilio and Juno and Julius and Laurel; all five of them, who need him. He thinks about how long he'd spent battling against the dummies, against trainers, against previous Victors. Thinks about his father; always cragged, sunken-eyes, so tired from the mines.

He thinks about the jealous wolves behind him. Thinks about how they'd quite like to buy their way into his spot, like how they bought their ways in the Academy themselves. Thinks about how he was chosen.

(For his glory; for his victory; for riches the rest of them could never have; riches they could only dream of.)

He laughs. "You're right. I'm not. See you after the Games!"

(It's a joke, laced in that too-smug smirk of his, the one that Nemesis always laughs at.

But he believes it. He must.)

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

"You're not training today?"

Dior straightens her back. Shifts her position on her bed. She keeps her eyes on the window. The Reaping square leers back at her. It is without the harsh celebratory lights that force the luxuriant gleam into the pillars. It is without the Capitol and citizen life that forces the stage into life. It is dreary. A pale corpse, almost, bleach-bone white. A ghost that makes a joke of itself.

_Hasn't this stage been what you'd seen? Same stage, same people. Same Dior. Now and before. You're no different, are you?_

"You're not answering me, Dior."

Carefully, she curtails the words in her lips; strips them of feeling, of any sort of care. "I've trained."

Her sister scoffs from the doorway. She does not go away. "What, like you did two years ago?"

Aline's words string round the room. Dior's throat extricates her words. "I'm better now."

"And you're sure," Aline says. It is less dubious than it is a drawl. Dior's chest tightens. She is sure. She is beyond certain. Aline had seen her train; just as Leonard had seen her train; just as Verica had seen her train.

_Mattie never saw you train._

"I'm sure." Her jaw unclenches. "They chose me."

Aline's eyes narrow. That haughty light flashes in her eyes. _Always in the moment before she pounces on her prey._

"Oh, again? I'm surprised they gave you a second chance."

Dior's throat is wet. She clenches her fists. Balls them into the bed. As if Aline wouldn't see. If she sinks them deep enough. She won't see how it clenches.

Because Aline's fucking with her now. It isn't as if she doesn't _know_.

Dior closes her eyes. Heaves a quiet breath. She opens them. The Reaping square leers. She turns away. She fixes her eyes on Aline.

"Aren't you supposed to be at the Academy today? Training the new batch of fifteens?"

Aline takes her hand off the door. Aline draws near. Aline cocks her head at Dior. "Some kid's taking my place. I'm free for today."

Dior flicks her eyes over Aline, approaching. Grips a bit of the bed. It's as tight as a vice, the words in her throat. "How come?"

Aline shrugs. "Guess. It's obvious, really."

Dior's eyes, unconsciously, flick away from Aline's. She looks back at the square. "I don't know."

It's a laugh that strokes Aline's throat. "Oh, come on, _Dior_."

Finally, Dior turns her eyes back on Aline. "Just tell me."

Aline bounces down on Dior's bed. She tilts her head sideways. There's a haunted smirk that tinges her eyes. "My sister is volunteering."

It's bitter, it's caustic, it's humorous, and something overtakes her; the pent-up frustration from the months of training, the lasting ghosts that linger sideways, the word that forms on Dior's lips are not hers. "Again?"

Aline laughs. "Now you're getting it."

* * *

(I'm not ready, please, not yet.)

Verica's voice. Stabbing at her from the foyer. You've been chosen, Dior. _What an honour! At seventeen, no less!_

Leonard. Cocking his head. _This is our chance, Verica. Dior will be a good little girl, and she'll win, won't she? Won't you be a good girl for us and win for the family?_

(I'm not ready, please, not yet.)

 _What do you mean, you're not ready? Of course you're volunteering._ Verica's voice, shrill-peaked. _Stop it, Dior, you'll make me laugh._ Leonard, half a growl. _I'll have a chat with that brat._

(Low deep breaths. Steady, no, you're ready. Don't make your throat crack.)

Verica. Fanning her hands round. As if swatting nonexistent flies. Eyes never meeting Dior's. _Not enough training, that's no excuse to fear! One girls aren't the best trained. They win anyway._

Leonard. Fixing his scraggly face at Dior. A lion's maw. A lion's sneer. _Don't second-guess. There's no one to take your place if you don't say yes._

(Deep breaths. No, you're ready. Deep breaths. You're ready. Deep breaths. No, no, you're not ready.)

Steps. Several. Clopping out from the door to their house. Mattie, earnest-faced, bow muddied from shooting in the moors. Tilting down, pooling out on the worn-wood floor. A tick of a grin swirling upon her lips.

_I'll take Dior's place._

_Verica. You can't, Mattie darling. You're barely sixteen._ Eyes over to Leonard. Concerned. Leonard. Eyes-up, turning towards his wife.

But Mattie. Mattie is magnetic. Mattie has Leonard's charm and none of his coldness. Mattie has Verica's alluring smile and none of her ditziness. Mattie has winning blue eyes and a carelessness that unshackles her when the Marinis are so bound.

Mattie always draws all eyes back at her.

And her head's tilting sideways, her eyes sweeping around, her casual smile playing her lips when she tells her father and mother, _It's okay. I'm ready._

_I've trained, Mother. I'll be able to do it, Father._

Leonard. Gnawing his lips. At his child that has his strength. That is the spitting image of himself. _Are you sure, Mattie? You don't have to. Dior will volunteer._

Verica. Biting her lips. Nodding vigorously. At her child that has her vigour. That is the spitting image of her glory. _Yes, yes, Mattie. It doesn't matter. Dior will volunteer._

Mattie. Shaking her head. Something playing on her lips. _Dior's scared. She doesn't want to go. It's no problem. I'll bring you glory, Daddy. I'll win for the family. I'll be back before you know it, Mom. Don't worry about me._

She repeats Mattie's litany in her head. She'll be back before she knows it, Dior tells herself, then. She'll bring glory. She'll bring a flurry of red behind her. She'll bring a smile and a cavalcade behind.

_Don't worry. Don't be teary. I'll win for you, Di._

Her sister's coming back. She'll come back with a faerie smile. She'll come back with a bloodied blade and an array of accolades and in a cascade of nightshade. With a cavalcade behind.

* * *

Mattie comes with a ruby choker around her neck, a precious slit throat that pries the smile from her lips. And she is drenched in a dress of red.

* * *

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

"You're gonna die like that girl last Games. That One girl. Remember her?"

Chrys lets out a rancorous laugh. Seriously? Out of all people Dad could've compared him to—her?

"Dad, everyone remembers Saros. She killed herself."

"She didn't. That other girl—tricked her into…"

He scoffs. "Oh, come on, it was obvious. She'd been wanting to die for a while. You don't know her; _I'd_ seen her lurch round the Academy, lucid all the while. It was clear early on that Saros wasn't gonna be a Victor. Besides—do I look suicidal to you?"

His Dad presses his palms in his eyes. Which was always the precursor to a groan. "Chrysaor!"

Chrys lets out a breath. This conversation shouldn't even be happening. They'd talked this through weeks ago.

His Dad gets up and paces. "Do you know what this means? Volunteering? Emilio is _scared_ for you, Chrys."

"Tell him he doesn't have to be. I'll be perfectly fine."

"That's what you think. That's what they all think, Chrys. How many District Ones have died the last few years?"

"That's because they weren't ready. Not as ready as I am. And you know I'm ready. You know that."

His Dad opens his mouth—to retaliate. And Chrys prepares himself; prepares the evidence of his training, of his dedication, of all else he could use to refute.

Dad doesn't retaliate. He crumples. It's ashen, his face: of wrinkles and tired lines and streaks of yet-to-be-cleared dust, and then he is only a creature, a pitiful one, that the mines have moulded him into.

"Don't do this to me, son. I don't want to lose you too."

Chrys's words are sharp as they are fast. "You won't."

"No. Don't say that. You know what day it is."

Heavy silence encases them. It's thicker than mine-dust than the clouts of smog that swallow Coal. It's heavy in his chest like ember-smoke, gathering, swelling, settling in his lungs.

_(His mother, smiling, the brightest in Coal, they'd said, you'd think that nothing bad could ever happen to her.)_

Chrys exhales. "I know. I'm sorry. But—" and his eyes flick out to their dirty windows, and he strains his sight, and there's a little bit of Opulence that he makes out.

"—I'm gonna win, Dad. You're gonna get out of that shitty gem-mining job, Melissa's gonna get the dresses she needs for her projects, we'll buy Juno new books, we'll find Julius a new hobby, we'll get Laurel new toys, and then we'll all be better off from it. You don't have to worry."

"I don't want you to do this, Chrys."

(His father, sooted in the same worn miner's outfit he'd used for ten years. His father, struggling to put food on the table. His father, coughing like the Black Death, because of what's gotten into his lungs.)

"I'm not doing this because you can't," Chrys says, gently, as he keeps his eyes on Opulence. "It's because you're trying and I want to help."

"It's not that," Dad says, quietly, behind him. But Chrys's eyes are rivet on Opulence: and he does not break away.

(On his mother's deathbed, he had promised her: he would enrol into the Academy like she wanted him to. He would train for the Games.

On the anniversary of his mother's death, he volunteers for the Games.)

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

Mattie. Strangled by a garrotte. Tenth place. Dead in a ditch. In the Games that Dior was supposed to be in. Two years ago. She's eighteen; almost nineteen, now, she was cut from volunteering last year, and they thought that would be the last they heard from the Marinis. But oh, no. Now the rule-change meant she could.

And she was chosen. For being the best. They'd forgotten what had happened before. Because nobody cared about the dead.

She's in Mattie's spot, now. Mattie would've been eighteen, this year. She'd have won the Games, this year: Mattie would have trained. Mattie would have been able to do it. Mattie would have been ready. Mattie would have been their Victor; Mattie would have lived, and Dior would be dead.

_(I've trained, Mother. I'll be able to do it, Father.)_

Oh. She'll make them remember.


	4. The Dust-Angel and The Vexed - District 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Massive thanks once again to symphorophilia for betaing this chapter! It wouldn't've turned out half as decent as it is now is without you - so thank you so much! :D
> 
>  **Trigger Warning** : Drug abuse.

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

She had been high when her face had been taken for the 56th Games.

It had been a good idea then. Thyia had suggested it to her, right after their final day at the Academy, whilst they were all lucid in the high: _you've got to look all good for the Capitol, don't you? Good! Get this girl some molly!_

She'd gotten absolutely hammered. She _was_ floaty through it all, and she was so stupefied that maybe she was actually happy then. Did she smile? Must've. Her mentor didn't even bat an eye at how so much more gleeful she looked that day. Glee was for the Games!

But the comedown is… fuck.

Hera tilts her head back against the bathroom tiles. She'd closed the lights, before she stumbled in, and ended up spewing all her vomit in the toilet. And even though the shit's all out of her system, Hera still feels like shit.

(She wouldn't _usually_ go for ecstasy. But her usual drug dealer got eviscerated in the Games. She's only trying new things.)

Besides. Wasn't it like Thyia said? _You gotta get high till you can't get high anymore! Make most of the time you've got, Hera! Till you're a winner!_

At least the pictures were over with. At least the procedures were a blur. At least she didn't have to deal with everyone _touching_ her, with everyone bombarding her with questions and orders and questions, _why do you look like that why have you done up your hair like that weren't you supposed to be here ten minutes ago what took you so long come on we don't have time left—_

_— dress-up is quick don't worry about it don't worry about time time's fine here take this one no actually that other one looks better on you change now no that's horrible no stop touching that bow you're not choosing I'm the professional I'm in charge so stop won't you you don't know anything—_

_—Don't look away what did I tell you stare at the camera look right in what do you think you're doing stop twitching like that control yourself you're supposed to be a Career aren't you strong fierce able ruthless remember so sit up make this easier for us I said smile Hera smile._

There's the _drip-drip-drip_ of something making a puddle. It smells of sewer water and the aftermath of her day-old sandwich.

She'll have to clean that up later. She'll have to clean _herself_ up. Or else she'll have to deal with Dad and Mom _seeing_ all of _this_ , and _no, they can't find out._ She can't even imagine how their faces would look. Dad's face would crumple. Mom would clasp her hands over her mouth and choke, _oh, my little girl, why?_

(What could she say to them? They'd ask her questions and she would be speechless. And what could she say? It was them? _Blame_ them? For wanting the best there was for her? No, she couldn't. _Of course_ she couldn't. It wasn't their fault. It was her problem, she was just so _unable,_ to meet their expectations, to be what they wanted her to be, to be so _charismatic, able, vicious—)_

Hera breathes in; she breathes out. Fuck. It's the last time. She didn't mean to get so high. And she won't. Again. She's a bag of bones and she's sloshing in _misery_. She won't do it again. She'll remember the feeling of this particularly bad crash and never do it again. Easy.

She breathes in; she breathes out. _Concentrate,_ she tells herself, _focus._ She's in her Dad's toilet, she's in the dark, she's covered in her own vomit. She's shaking, her eyes are blurry, her heart's strumming wildly and she's exhausted and she's so _tired_. She needs—makeup. She needs to cover herself up. She can't let them see her anaemic skin, her sweat, her hollowed-out cheekbones. Foundation. Powder. Eye concealer. Mascara.

She's a new person in front of the mirror. She stares at herself, and slowly, a bit of a smile forms by the corner of her lips. Hera Dalenka is not a drug addict. Hera Dalenka is the _volunteer_ of District 2. Hera Dalenka is a winner.

_(Cheater.)_

And sure. Hera can't hide some things, bruises and saggy skin and ugly yellow streaks that wreck her chestnut skin, but she'll blame it on training. They'll understand training.

There is the clack of a lock, the click of a key that she hears. And her stomach shrinks, because _they're back, they're back_ and there's still sops of vomit on the toilet and on the floor and the stink's everywhere— _no, oh, no, no, no, no—_

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

"Dinner's in the kitchen," Kiernan tells his mom. She's still hunched over the dinner table, as she had been for three months going now. His eyes momentarily linger on her back.

There's a tightness in his chest, that binds him together, as harsh as rope. His mom is a husk of a human, and there is something that moulds on the tip of his tongue at the sight of her.

He knows what is going through her head. Replays of the Games serve the countdown to the Reapings. They would be blaring, outside and here, even in the discontented streets and discontented people.

(What are they showing? Usually, it would be heroic. Bloody blades to blades, male crusaders and female charades, fading highlights to their games. Screens devoted to their brigades, their grenades, their parades. And then their remains.)

(Their murders would be serenaded. Their deaths would be celebrated. District Two is the home for the Victors, after all. Kiernan thinks, they have little material to work with for the last Games. Unless clips of his sister making out with some other girl were inspiring somehow.)

And of course, it is him that will go next. _Him,_ twelve, no training under his belt, neither a willing volunteer or a Career. But his mom is not thinking about that. Her brain's still in the same place it's stayed in since the 55th Games began.

He should scoff. He should glare at his mom like he has a dozen times before. _Stop thinking about her,_ is what he usually tells her, but that earns him nothing from his mother but a sob. _She isn't here anymore,_ he'd continue, balling his hands into fists as he keeps from adding, _I don't know why you still care._

Maeve had been long gone before she'd left for the Games.

But it doesn't matter what he says; his mom is spellbound, always somewhere else in her head. She'd disappeared into her thoughts, lost herself to one of those fantasies that he's too old to make up now. Her eyes would glimmer, she'd shake her head, and she would lean back in her chair, a sad, faraway smile lining her lips. _Oh, Kiernan. There is - there's just so much you don't understand._

It's comments like this which make him snap because she's treating him like a _child_ , like he's _eight,_ and he'd say, _what don't I know? Why don't you tell me? I'm twelve. I know what I'd seen. I live here. Or d'you think I wasn't here for the last four years of my life?_

But that same sad tinge would stay on her lips, and she'd look at him with glazed eyes like he was a figment of what a twelve-year-old should be rather than a person at all, and she'd murmur: _you act so much bigger than you are._

He forces himself to clamp his mouth shut. He's not having another argument with his mother. Even though he really, _really_ wants to. At least he'll be able to _yell,_ able to smash something with an excuse, able to make his mom cry without regret simmering in his chest.

It's Maeve's fault, not _his,_ that his mom's stuck in the thoughts that spin a fantasy out in her head. It's Maeve's fault, not _his_ , that his mom's head's half in the clouds and soaked in the times before.

_It's Maeve's fault… it's Maeve's fault…_

(Why is it so hard for Mom to understand that she'd lost Maeve long before she'd gone into the Games?)

Kiernan stomps into the corridor and flings open the door to his room. His room, now, and he grabs the ruddy bag hanging from the crooked nail in the wall, throws the bag against the metal ladder of the bunk bed, _once, twice, thrice,_ and then the dust bursts off the bag's surface. He tosses it on the bottom bunk, disrupting the sheets there.

(Sheets that had gripped the bed's edges so tightly that it had stretched, like grey tarp, and made an ashen slab of the bed; one that covers a body in a coffin.)

(A death bed.)

Mom had insisted they keep it like this; in the same condition it was before Maeve left, almost as if she believed his sister was going to come home and reclaim her bed— because they couldn't find her body in the morgue, and that _had_ meant something, right?

But Maeve hadn't bothered. Not in a body bag or in a coffin of red-yellow or hell, or even as spectre; _never came, so keen to forget about them_. Her picture-perfect bed remains untouched as it always had been, save for the crease that's been left behind by Kiernan's bag.

Kiernan laughs as he grabs the next thing on he sees — _Maeve's_ denim jacket, scavenged from the dumps and hanging on a hook, worn out and broken down — and throws it onto the bed. He grabs their picture frame, that one that had sat on their shelf for five years, preserving their grinning faces; grabs the sculpture he'd made of her when he was six, one of clay that he wanted to throw away, but Maeve had said to him, _smile's mine,_ and so he'd kept it there; grabs the wind-up toybox with a broken spring and a jester's spectre that they had shared, before, because Mom was too busy to make toys for them, so they'd found their own instead; grabs the rock that she'd given to him as a birthday gift because it reminded her of him. And he smashes them all on the bed.

He's panting and his breathing's shallow - too, _too_ shallow - and he realises he's roused up a dust-storm. Kiernan's coughing before he knows it and panic seizes his chest and his veins because he's gonna have, he's having an attack.

 _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ He's holding his breath, he's trying to keep them slow, he's letting air expunge from his nose. His hands rummage for his rescue inhaler, and he puts it to his lips, he presses on the button, and he forces himself to calm down. He does not remove it from his lips. Until he is breathing again.

He closes his eyes. It had been a waste, his mom would berate him, _that was preventable_ , _Kiernan, what have I_ told _you, you_ _need to be more careful, we don't have much more we can spend on inhalers, keep your feelings under control._

He would've felt guilty then, but he doesn't care now. He opens his eyes. There's still dust that tinges the room, but there's less and less now. His hand falls back to the side, as he heaves out his rage.

And Kiernan stares at his creation.

It isn't anything but an imitation of life, a mosaic, of what-had-beens. Of odd-little trinkets and lopsided creations and of bits of style here and there, of that ragged blue and cherry red that was her colour, of sculptures with broken necks, of cracked picture-frames. Of what, if haphazardly put together, had once made up Maeve.

He wants it all burned.

(Like she deserves. She deserves it. It's the _least_ of what she deserves, really, for all she's done to them. She's fucked them all up, forced Kiernan to grow up before his time, and—)

He salvages his bag from the travesty, stuffing it full with the supplies he'll need to survive over the next few days: inhalers, snacks, gloves, maybe, he'll probably need that in the Games. He slings it over his shoulder when he's done. It weighs on his shoulders. Heavy, but it's enough.

_Is it really enough for him to survive?_

He wants to laugh, again.

And that is precisely when his mom pushes his door open, clasping her hands to her mouth as she stares at the mess he's made of a room that had once been theirs.

(His and Maeve's.)

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

"Are you ready for the Games, Hera?"

Dad's voice is heavy from across the table. It drags across her, like the screech of a scythe against steel.

Hera's eyes widen. And she tries a little smile by her lips. His words surprise her. His eyes, even more so. They sparkle, and Julius Dalenka's never do. Never when it came to training; _this is for your future, Hera, do as you are told_. Never when it came to excursions; his eyes, weighed by ceaseless business negotiations, told: _that will disrupt your preparation. Remember what is more important now._ Never when his vocal chords, rasping in dust, ordered: _you'll become a Victor, Hera, and you'll not worry another day in your life._

She supposes, now, his eyes have reason to glisten. She will enter the Games now. _It's what's best for you, Hera. You'll have a good future, now. Remember that I love you._

Hera looks at him now. It crushes her, a little bit more. His words. His eyes. So much _trust_ in her, so much _belief,_ so much _pride. S_ he wants to wither.

 _Unable, useless, unsuccessful, you can't do anything, not like how they want you to, you're weak, you're pathetic, you're the worst of them, you know, a failure and a liar and a cheater, that's who you are, won't be anything more than that, what do you think you_ are—

"I'm sorry about the stomachache, sweetheart," Mom says. There's a frown on her lips as her fingers run over the booklet. "I made _sure_ that there was nothing bad in your diet yesterday—and you _never_ throw up my lemon meringue! I don't see what it could've been!"

Hera leaves her smile on. It strains against her. But Mom doesn't notice. Just like how she doesn't notice Hera's excessive makeup or her clenching teeth or her shivering fingers.

"I've planned out your day tomorrow!" Mom chirps, far too happily. "I've already laid out your volunteering dress! I've packed your water canteen, your token—it's my silver bracelet, I'm sure you'll love it, two apples—none more, though, I don't want you eating too much!—and double sandwiches, because you'll need those calories for the Capitol! I haven't cancelled your activities— it's _important_ for you, Hera, you have to keep your activity up—and…"

After her mom lists every single thing she'd written for Hera's schedule, she gazes at Hera expectantly. It's ceremonial, and Hera forces out a _thank you._

Her mom smiles back. But her fingers trace down the booklet as if she were wishing for more days to plan. More days to list and make and control.

Hera's stomach clenches. Heat pushes up her face. Because yesterday, Mom had told her to spend _an hour before pictures, remember, be punctual, give them what a proper District Two Career should be._

_Ten minutes, too busy getting kite-high, so proper, aren't you, so proper you'd destroyed your house's plumbing and blamed it on your mother's pie, so conscientious, so vicious, so perfect, little perfect Career girl._

Her muscles tense. She grips her fists. Her teeth won't stop shaking. And Mom and Dad are staring.

Waiting.

Hera grits her teeth into a grin. She needs to close her eyes, she needs to imagine herself in front of the mirror, _ruthless, charming, Two girl of the hour, make a crowd proud, make the Capitol roar, make the world wild, make them revel not revile, smile, smile, smile._

She smiles.

"You are ready," Dad says, and there's a finality, a smile in his words. His calloused, dark hands press onto her shoulder. His eyes, so _believing,_ dig into her, under the gelid of her eyes and under where she shivers inside and—

_Two girl of the hour, why would she cower? She's the Career that'll volunteer, they'll cheer and she'll persevere. She is a proper District Two Career, drug-free and a Victor is what she'll be._

_(Isn't she?)_

"Oh, she very much is," Mom says. A smile flitters upon her lips. "We're so proud of you, Hera, aren't we, Julius?"

Her heart's ramming against her ribcage. Her breathing's speeding. Sweat's tracing down her forehead, rolling her makeup off, stripping her foundation, her powder, her concealer _._ She's breathing, her heart's beating, because her face will peel apart and they'll see. _They'll see._

_District Two girl you are, a face so fake you wouldn't need to see to believe, a brain so broken you wouldn't need drugs to deceive, abilities so shitty you need to cheat to actually breathe._

"Of course," Dad says. He reaches over to put a hand on Mom's shoulder. That glint stays in his eyes. It'll die any moment. Because he sees her _eyes,_ doesn't he, he knows what goes through her mind, any moment now he'll shake his head and sigh, he knows, he's acting, he _has to be_ , he _knows_ and he's with so much pride it makes her sick because he knows it's all a _lie_.

"You're our perfect District Two Victor," Dad says. And Hera can barely breathe. His eyes seek hers. His eyes drop deep into hers. He knows who she is. _Perfect District Two Victor,_ a sneer, his eyes seethe, it _has to be_.

"This is all for you, Hera, remember," he says, but she can barely hear him. She's shaking, she's trembling, she's barely breathing. _Control, control, keep it down, know who you are, do as you're told, stop moving like that, control yourself. Focus, there's your Mom's eyes and there's your Dad's, keep it in, keep yourself boxed, focus, focus, control yourself._

She inhales; she exhales. Her room; she needs to go to her room. She wants to bury herself in her bed and her covers and never come out again. But she is a District Two Career and she must _smile, smile, smile—_

She smiles. And Mom and Dad grin back at her, just the same, claws of a puppet's grin, frozen in that same state as she, _they know, don't they, they must know, no, no, no—_

Hera needs to _go._ But she smiles, she smiles, she doesn't stop smiling.

(Just like how a District Two Career should be.)

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

"What have you done, Kiernan?"

He shrugs. He can't bring himself to meet her eyes; her shimmering eyes would seem desolate, inconsolable, so close to breaking.

"Nothing."

" _Nothing?_ Kiernan, you've…" and there's a cry in her throat, the same pitiful sounds she'd made anywhere she went; beside the dining table, on their broken-down couch, in the kitchen and in her room. Sounds that had wracked her and made her more a mourner than a mother.

Kiernan looks up. His throat tightens as he watches his mother dash towards the bottom bunk. As she takes in what had been thrown away.

"Kiernan, don't you remember any of this? Of… of…" and her fingers brush over the picture-frame, a relic, another, of all the times past. She stays there, swaying, because she'd like to invigorate herself in _memory_ , to forget about their world and their woes - because what _else_ is better than making up a tale?

"I do." he says, and glares at his mom. "And you know what? I should've done this a long time ago."

The next sob shakes her chest. "Kiernan, why?"

It grates on him, the way his mother cries; like she's fresh from watching Maeve's death on screen, like everything in their life had been lost with her death. Kiernan makes himself breathe. His mother is torn in grief. His mother is in pain. His mother is processing.

But his mother is not _Maeve._ She does not live in a land of snow in her head. She does not create delusions and pretend they tell a tale. She does not foster stories and stay so blissfully unaware. She does not act as if the world around her is a _fairytale_.

Kiernan can't help it. He snaps.

"Seriously? I'm dying! I'm dying, tomorrow, and _Maeve's_ still the only person you care about? Come on!"

His mom's lips quiver. Regret shrivels in his chest, but he doesn't relent. He keeps his glare up; fixes them on her glinting eyes.

"You shouldn't be so—so harsh on your sister."

_Really?_

"Don't give her special treatment! Maybe she's cuckoo, but you don't get to act like she's _special!_ And she's dead now. So _stop it._ Stop caring about her so _much_."

His Mom shakes her head. Her lips press together. In that way that is lined with a sigh. In that way that tells Kiernan that _he should shut up,_ because _she knows so much better than him._

"I think… it's time I told you the truth, Kiernan. Your sister volunteered. For the tesserae." She nears closer to him; she takes his cheek in her hand, she looks at him and the wrinkles on her face ease, and she whispers, like it is a dream: "Two years' worth, Kiernan."

It's so ridiculous it's almost funny.

Kiernan exhales. He closes his eyes. _She can't be serious._ He opens his eyes. His Mom stares at him, that uncertain, hopeful light in her eyes, that twists and twirls inside.

He lets out a breath. "Mom. It's been _two months._ You can't seriously still be thinking that."

"It's only been two months—"

"No! Has Maeve ever even taken tesserae back home from the Academy? To us? No. You _know_ that, Mom," and the light in his mom's eyes are faltering, but he gnashes his teeth and presses on, "She doesn't _train_ for the tesserae. Do you think we'd still live here if she had? Do you think that she'd spent days and nights away for us? Do you think—" and this, he almost laughs, "—do you think she volunteered for us?"

His breath's heavy when he's done, and his mom's eyes are wide, but he exhales out what's left in him. "You can't seriously believe what she says."

The light dies. But there is still a frail smile that lifts his mom's lips. "No, Kiernan, you don't know how your sister is."

 _Oh, he knows._ His mom knows he knows and he knows she knows too. He wishes he doesn't. He wishes he wasn't the most level-headed one in this house. He wishes that Maeve hadn't been so fucked up in the head. He wishes that his mom wasn't so caring. He wishes so many things.

"Mom," he says. And his mom's face crumbles. That smile stays, of course, but it is not hers. It is a puppeteer's. One that pulls up a facade and forces a too-wide grin, so artificial and so pitiful, across her lips. But he knows. He knows from the pain in her eyes and the stiffness of her stance. He knows she _understands._

He's never been so _mad_ before.

"You know what?" Kiernan's fists tighten on his bag straps and he glares at his mom. "Believe what you want. But I'm dead in a week's time, and then maybe then you'll care about me when I'm dead, but at least I won't have to deal with this _stupid shit_ anymore!"

He pushes past his mom. He'll be early to the Reapings, but what the hell, he's the star there, isn't he? Volunteering, twelve going on eighteen, the Capitol's _chosen_ because his sister's fucked up her Games so much that they need her family to pay for her mistakes, her family that she hadn't even cared about in the first place, so, _why not?_ They _expect_ him to. He's _ordained_ to.

His mother grasps his arm before he can go, and he sees the shattered ceramic that is her face, the porcelain mask of before lost. She holds her head in her hands. As if to rescue the pieces of her face that are still left. Chokes.

And Kiernan's anger crumbles.

Kiernan moves towards his mom, and hugs her— tight, as tight as he can. As she sobs over a ghost that was never there. As she sobs over the bones and ashes he'll soon become, too.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I know," his mom murmurs. "I'm so sorry, too, Kiernan. I'm sorry."

(In that moment, he hates his sister—for letting her lies spread, for letting her fantasies encircle his mom's throat, for letting them choke on it, even after her death. In that moment, he wishes that she had died by strangulation instead, so she knows what it's like to live in the hell that she had left for them, not quite alive and not quite dead, suffocating in the past that bleeds in the present, only alive because she's waiting for the moment her breath'll go.)

* * *

"Kiernan."

Kiernan looks down from his bed. Maeve looks up at him, tight-lipped. Coldness sweeps through his heart. What does she want?

(She hasn't said his name for months, yet when she does, it's natural; never butchered, never changed.)

"What is it, Maeve?" His tone is fast, harsh, clipped. It's only half-intentional, so he can watch her struggle for her words.

(He wouldn't have played this game with her before. But, Kiernan figures, it's an asshole move for her asshole moves. They're on an even playing field now.)

"I was wondering. About… about what you. Thought. If I…"

He bites back a remark. _When have you stopped being able to string a sentence together? Oh wait._ It's on the tip of his tongue when he notices Maeve's eyes.

Wet. But she couldn't've been crying. Not _Maeve_.

She's not trying to get the words out of her lips anymore. She's faltered, now. It frustrates Kiernan beyond belief, because she hadn't spoken to him in _ages_ , and of course it's now that she starts and stops.

He scoffs. " _What_ is it?"

Once the word exits his lips he's angry at himself. It's not as if he cares about what she had to say. Not as if he cares about her at all. Even if he's giving the impression that he does. Pretending it doesn't matter that she wasn't at home half the time, that she'd forgotten there was such thing as _home_ and _him_ and _Mom_ , that she'd thrown down her responsibilities and let Kiernan pick up the pieces.

So before she can work the words off her lips, he scowls. "You know what? Save it. I don't—" and a cough rattles his throat, but he keeps it down, _not now,_ "—I don't care about you, alright? You've stopped—"

Another short.

"—stopped caring about—"

And another.

"—about us so long ago. So—"

And another, and another, and another.

"—so don't say anything. To— me. To us. Because you—you don't get to act like you'd said a word—"

And his throat shorts. His lungs are shrinking. He can barely speak.

"—to us—"

It's tight, tight, so much tighter.

"—at all. And pretend that—"

His chest. His chest encloses. He's wheezing.

"—what you do—"

He's shorting. His breath.

"—matters to—"

His throat. _He can barely speak._

"—to me."

He can't breathe. He's choking. He's coughing. He can't _breathe._

Maeve's eyes are wide. And that is what he hates the most. That there is _concern_ in her eyes.

(He hates that there is concern in her eyes because of her one-track mind, because her brain can't comprehend anything else except for what is in the moment. He hates that she isn't sorry, isn't pained, isn't guilty, because those feelings don't click in her head.)

"I'll… I'll get…"

"Go away," he says, even in a wrack of coughs. "You're— you're not gonna help me. Not—not after you've done nothing for me."

Maeve's eyes are wide, as she takes him in, convulsing, coughing, choking. His hands fumble for his inhaler in his pocket. He presses and he _breathes_.

Maeve leaves.

Kiernan breathes.

She volunteers. The next day. He sees her from his sector of twelves. She strides on stage, a smile wreathing her lips and a too-bright beam when she skips on stage. False or real; he does not know what to believe.

But her eyes are stills of mirages, of glassy facades; as if she is all too aware of what she parodies.

Her eyes are the same when she dies; haunted and empty, blank and lost, and if Kiernan forces himself to look, he can almost see regret in them.

(This is Kiernan's problem: he does not know what to believe. False, real, Maeve is just as much a fantasy as the insanities she makes up in her head. She was family. Maybe. But he doesn't know how to interpret her fairytales. Hasn't tried.

But Maeve's dead. She might be mentally unwell, might be off-kilter and insane, but she's _dead_. And that should be the end to that.

He's in her fairytale, now. He's the sequel to her crazy. Because hell if Maeve let anything end. Hell if she'll let him become anything else than what she makes of him.)

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

Hera slams her door shut. Her heart's jagging in her skin a dozen times a second, her mind's going wild, she's breathing and her heart can't stop _beating_. She throws her Reaping dress aside, tosses her closet open, rips through the fabrics, the leather, the clothes. She tears through the scents of lilac and metal and salt, she _needs, she needs—_

_You need what, Hera, sweetheart? I've ordered all of your clothes, colour-coded, I've put your Reaping dress out, you don't have to look, what is it you need, here, let me see—_

She ransacks, she yanks out sleeves and strips of frills, she drags herself in, deeper, submerges her hands, deeper, like she's dragging sand and dust apart, she's _unearthing,_ she needs, needs—

_Gold? Gold is not enough, Hera. Gold won't make you survive. Practice. Do as you're told. You won't be a Victor if you act like that._

She's breathing, she's breathing, she's _breathing,_ shallow, it's just so shallow, her chest's convulsing, she's heaving, she's digging, she's _crying,_ she's _crying_. _Where has she put it she needs it she needs it—_

And her fingers strike plastic. It sinks into her fingers, swathes her in snow. A chill runs down her skin. She breathes, and she stills.

Her fingers aren't chattering anymore. Her teeth's released from their grind. Her jaw isn't shaking anymore. They've slowed. They've _slowed_.

Her eyes focus in amid the swarm. She heaves as she drags the bag out. White shimmers back at her, steals the gleam out of snow and gathers in, here.

Her gold.

She unzips the bag. It wafts against her, chemical and lilies and water, and she takes a moment, to take it in. Her nerves soothe, and her shoulders relax, and her mind goes quiet, for a moment.

Hera reaches for her pocket. She's always kept a note with her at all times, and Mom had always laughed, _she's scared she won't be able to make it home._

Her stomach squashes. She rolls up her banknote, between her shaking fingers, _why are they shaking,_ they aren't watching her, nobody's watching her, _she's alone in her own room and she'll be on a stage soon—_

Her fingers fumble for the bag, and she shakes the snow out in a line ahead, she _needs, she needs,_ it's a dove's feather, sugar and salt and everything pristine, _oh_ , _best District Career indeed, instead of being preemptively mentally fucked, that's what you choose to be, so vicious, so proper, so charismatic, so strong—_

_Shutupshutupshutup—_

She inhales.

And she lets herself drop back. She lets herself close her eyes. She lets her hands fall back to her sides. Lets her knuckles graze the floor. She breathes. She doesn't hear anything. She's free. She's _free._

It's spellbinding, the faerie substance, the angel dust, the snow pearls and the candy powder; her life and her life again evaporates, melts, dies. It is then, when, finally: Hera smiles.


	5. The Fighter and The Follower - District 4.

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

If there's a constant in Althea's life, it's this:

She needs to win.

Most District 4 kids experience the same; told to be better, told to _train_ , told to make it to the stage. And so, the Ivory family made them experience the same: payrolls going into preparation, the eversupply of bronze and gold in their mansions, slathering their armoury with halberds and fire-hardened spears, all readying for a volunteer.

That was Talon's life.

Her mother would barely give her even a side-eye; she would scoff and leave for another high-class socialite meeting, like the Games groupies for eventual victories. Her father had thrown all his money and all his time behind her brother; making him, moulding him, mentoring him, doing all he could for _him_. Sure, her father said it was _fair —_ but she'd seen how he looked at her, his wrinkled nose and wrinkled eyes going up and down her stature.

He'd gazed at her stature, an athlete's, as lean as a willow tree. At her physique, stronger than bulls. At her curves, sharper than daggers. At her smile—a winner's. At her eyes— the Ivory trademark, striking-electric blue. Oh, no: power wasn't a problem for _them_.

 _"_ _It's fair, Althea,"_ Talon would echo with a sneer, dragging out the last syllables of her name, and he'd shoulder past her, talk about the 52nd Games, how the District Four female was brutalised, _by a mutt no less_ , and a year before that drowned, _what an insult to our reputation,_ and before still, throat slit by her fellow Careers, _how fucking pathetic, don't you think, Althea?_

She'd bristled and she scoffed; and Talon would shrug, mouth, _what, I'm just saying_. _And who's been on a win streak? We're lucky to have actually competent male tributes carry our District_.

And of course: she had nothing to prove the same.

She couldn't steal his spot in the 53rd Games. Nobody was going to steal _his_ spot in the 53rd Games. _Talon Ivory_ , they'd proclaimed, in hushed whispers, _he's this year's official volunteer. Have you seen him? And you know the Ivory's. Some crazy training's got to have gone into him. He'll bring back the Victor's Crown, no doubt._

She couldn't do anything but watch her brother march up to the stage. How he screamed out, echo-loud, he'll bring them _glory_.

And so Althea had watched the 53nd Games. Watched him murder four outer District tributes in the bloodbath. Watched him thrust his bloody halberd up in the air, grinning to the sponsors and roar, _for Four_. Watched him intimidate the other Careers, _I'm sorry,_ _how many did you kill again?_ Watched him pick up a switchblade in the Arena, that he'd tucked into his pocket. Watched him jag his switchblade into his District Partner's throat. Watched him tromp around the Arena, like the entire Games was his to take. Watched him be stabbed in the back by the District One Male.

Talon died. 19th Place in the 53rd Games.

Oh, her parents panicked. They scrambled for their reputation. District 4's win streak, in _tatters_. They denounced her brother. They had their money; they had their training centre; they had no pride left. And that left her.

Althea Ivory.

Good thing she's already prepared, then.

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

He's aware of Mrs. Larimar's eyes on him. Rhodos grips his guitar tighter. Her eyes are waiting for him, alight with a certain calm that chills his skin with a coolness fit for the District Four's winters.

Rhodos's fingers finally find the strings. They slip a little, and he presses harder on the fretboard. He strums the first note. He keeps his eyes ahead, away from Mrs. Larimar's keen gaze, and he forces his shoulders down. Forces himself to relax.

He strums. His fingers pluck the strings, carefully, slowly, deliberately. He controls his notes, moves his fingers. His heart pounds in his chest.

_Calm down. This isn't a test._

Rhodos's eyes roam about Mrs. Larimar's music room. It's quietly bare, with more space than not filling up the tiny music chamber. Her windows, as always, are closed. There's only the slight, hazy tint of sunlight that radiates the windows - but it doesn't make it past the glass.

Rhodos likes it - it's small but comfortable, facing out towards the sea, even if he never hears the tousles of the waves himself. Mrs. Larimar had always insisted upon keeping the windows shut, even if it made Rhodos colder than he would have been had they been opened; but he never complained.

It's basic, too - there's only a dusty piano and a grimy microphone stand that occupies the room aside his guitar. It made sense: being one-footed, Mrs. Larimar liked ensuring that everything was practical and functional, especially for manoeuvring. But there was another reason for her utilitarian room, too: the number of kids learning from Mrs. Larimar had recently deteriorated, as they'd been encouraged to enter the Academy instead by their parents. Even Rodriguez, who had seemed so enthusiastic to learn how to sing, eventually dropped off, too. It had left Mrs. Larimar with only eight or so children to teach - barely anything compared to the sixty or so that she'd tutored when Rhodos had first started learning from her.

Rhodos continues to play. His teacher's sole feet's taps are quiet, but audible. He focuses ahead towards the windows ahead of him: at the twisting sea, moving as if in a tableau while he lets his music fill the atmosphere.

There's a silence that settles in the room once he's strummed the last note. Rhodos lets his shoulders relax after it's over. Her eyes are still upon him, and he's aware of how she's stewing in the silence.

"Look at me, Rhodos," she clears her throat, finally. He jolts his head up to her. There's something thoughtful that stays in her eyes, one which crawls Rhodos's heart in dread.

He'd done something wrong—he didn't think he'd messed up. He'd rehearsed this piece, twice, thrice, a dozen times in the quietude of his house, every time his parents were away. He'd arranged it himself. And the steeliness of Mrs. Larimar's grey eyes did nothing to soothe his jumbling nerves.

Finally, Mrs. Larimar sighs. She shakes her head, once, hard. "No. That was… horrendous. You can do much better, Rhodos."

He swallows. "Okay," he says. The words itself are scratchy against his throat. Criticism… especially from Mrs. Larimar, has never been easy for him to stomach.

(Before, when he was merely a child, he would've gulped, would've broken into tears, at her words, at the thought that he didn't do well. Didn't do what she wanted him to do. Didn't meet her _expectations_.)

"Oh, of course," Mrs. Larimar says. There's a certain distaste that twists her lips. "It's passionless."

Rhodos winces, slightly. It isn't the first time he'd taken criticism from Mrs. Larimar. If he couldn't accept criticism, he wouldn't be here. But this was new criticism. However poorly he played—however many times he messed up or had a note go awry—his music was never _passionless_.

"Right," he says, and the words knot in his throat. "How… can I change that?"

Mrs. Larimar sighs. "Rhodos," she says, levelling her eyes towards him. "I think you know better than anyone how to change _that_."

Rhodos takes a moment. How did he mess up? No—all the notes came out well, came in succession, he didn't go off-pitch. He played the piece well—he'd arranged _Tristesse_ on the guitar, because he'd heard the piano piece whilst at one of his parents' distinguished parties, and it was irresistible _not_ to replicate it on the guitar. It was one of his favourite arrangements, one he was most proud of. He'd memorised the placings when he was fifteen, in his house, wedging and fumbling his fingers across the strings. He could close his eyes and lose himself in it; he was _supposed_ to lose himself in it, when Mrs. Larimar asked him last week to perform one of his most beloved pieces. He didn't— he wasn't—

"I wasn't focusing," he says, finally.

"Yes," Mrs. Larimar says, without giving him a look nor a nod, "You're not focusing, Rhodos."

They stay in that silence. It's true—he wasn't focusing on Tristesse, like he should've had. He wasn't focusing on his music. He was striking out notes like they meant _nothing_ , like they were things to get done and be over with. He and Mrs. Larimar had a name for those types of composers.

 _They're the dull ones,_ Mrs. Larimar had said, a somberness twinging her lips. _They've buried themselves so much in their skills and accolades that they've forgotten what it meant to enjoy the music they made._

Rhodos pushes back a frustrated sigh.

"Look at me, Rhodos."

He turns his eyes up towards Mrs. Larimar. There's something empathetic that twinkles in his music teacher's eyes.

"What's your mind on?"

He lets the silence take the room, for a moment. It's heavy, that feeling in his chest, and his words are dry in his throat. He can't quite say anything—words struggle to his lips, but they falter on the tip of his tongue. It's not as if he has anything to say. Mrs. Larimar knows he'd returned from the Academy this morning; she knows the hours which he trains. She'd endured Rhodos's sullen moods after he entered her music room without a word post-training. Mrs. Larimar had seen him practically transform when it came to music.

She knew how he felt about his parents' wishes, training, the entirety of it. Rhodos had told her about the Academy's process, their vetting, the escalation of his parents' wishes regarding the end result of his training: _fight harder, Rhodos, your training is_ vital, _hear me, do it for the McNamara name_. He'd often apologised to her after those sessions because he would have to miss her music classes to do what his parents wanted him to.

Mrs. Larimar listened to it all, with a sympathetic, almost saddened tint to her eyes. Rhodos had always reassured her: you know where I'd rather be, he'd say.

He's volunteering now. He'll reach what his parents had so desperately wanted, what they so _needed_ him to do. He'll make them happy, finally, and then perhaps Father would actually give him a tight nod, _good job, Rhodos,_ and then perhaps Mother would finally hug him, and go, _I'm so proud of you son, I love you_. He'll have to _win_ , of course, for riches and money, for his parents' rightful positions to be reinstated in society. But he's made them happy already by agreeing to volunteer. Father had spoken of him, during their customary visits to the mansions of his old friends, _this is Rhodos McNamara, my son. He will bring us new fortune with his victory in the Games_. Mother had smiled at him—more times in a month than she had in an entire year—and his heart had swelled so much at every pull of her lips.

He can't imagine how much more delighted they'll be after he wins.

_(If he wins.)_

He's suddenly too conscious of Mrs Larimar's eyes upon him. Her previous question lingers in the air, decorating the atmosphere with an entrenched heaviness.

"I don't know," he admits. He hadn't expected to go so soon. He thought that he'd have more time. Ten more months of indulgence - of hearing a tune, of creating his own pieces, even if they only touched the ear of Mrs. Larimar. Ten more months of performing at the local bar, ten more months rowdy sea-songs which patrons had thrust at him, ten more months of old-time tunes and riffs, even if he had preferred classical music so much more.

Her sudden quiet is disheartening. Typically Mrs. Larimar is one of the few people Rhodos can be content around in silence, but this isn't one of those times. He shifts slightly; feeling all too aware of himself.

"Well," Mrs. Larimar says, and there is a certain kindness inclined in her eyes, even as she clears her throat, firm. "Wherever your focus was, it certainly wasn't on your music. Again. You do not get to disrespect Chopin. Not on the guitar."

Heaviness lifts. Rhodos feels the tilt of a smile flick over his lips. "Try again," his music teacher offers. "Focus on your music. Not anything else, Rhodos."

Rhodos closes his eyes. His fingers twine the taut wire, but they go soft under his touch, as if deferring to his command. It's the same as before, but his mind's quiet now. He finds the first note and plays.

He lets himself go to the music; he flows, he sways, he hums. He's cold in Mrs. Larimar's living room - he always is - but the chill doesn't distract him. _Tristesse_ twirls, twists, and dances in the air: it's a wondrous sound, lovely and soft and strong and everything at once. Rhodos doesn't realise he's finished until his fingers pluck the string once more, and there are no more notes left of the piece to pull him back to the fretboard.

The silence envelops the room is too potent with the loss of music that had inhabited it moments before.

Rhodos opens his eyes. Mrs. Larimar's watching him rather than looking at him, considering him. Anxiety grips his heart, but it's less than it had before.

"Much better," she says, her lips inclining slightly.

Rhodos relaxes. "I'm glad you think so," he says. "Thank you."

(He _feels_ better. It's like a weight's been lifted off him, through the notes and the playing. As if he'd been alleviated. He feels free.)

_(Maybe.)_

"Don't thank me," Sonata Larimar says, a slight scoff working its way up her mouth. "Thank yourself, Rhodos, for that piece."

It's not usual that he gets a compliment from Mrs. Larimar - he could count the times he'd received them from her in their whole ten years on one hand. He feels a slight blush tinge his cheeks. Mrs. Larimar's having none of it, however — _there's still quite a lot for you to improve upon, Rhodos. Now, for the technicalities…_

Though he practices nearly an hour more, Rhodos is halfway out the door before he has a chance to make note of it, waving goodbye to his music teacher as he steps out into the street. Yet before he can leave, Mrs. Larimar's voice hits his ears, stopping him in his tracks.

"Rhodos. Will I be seeing you on that stage tomorrow?"

He'd been so lost in music that a comment regarding the Reapings was the last thing he'd have expected out of Mrs. Larimar's mouth. And everything crashes back into him. His _parents_. His reality. His _life_. Rhodos attempts a smile, even as the hollowness of his chest weighs on him.

"You will," he says, swallows. _Why are the words so hard to get out?_

Something flicks across Sonata's expression. If Rhodos wasn't so attuned to her, he wouldn't've realised, either. Anyone else would've assumed that it was firmness, sardonicism, or the beginning of a reprimand - but he knew her face for what it was.

What she's feeling is sadness.

"I'll miss having you here," Sonata says.

"I'll…" the words short in his throat, as he finally meets Sonata's eyes, as he takes in her house, her calloused hands, her music room that made a tableau of the world, and finally _her._ This woman who'd taught him, who never gave up on him, who saw his passion and understood him _._

"… I'll miss being here," Rhodos says, and there's a tightness in his throat that tangles his unsaid words together.

"I know," Sonata says, her wrinkled lips working up sideways. "But I'll see you afterwards, won't I?"

The sincerity of her belief in him is shocking. It's more than what he'd put in himself—and the fact that it came from _Sonata Larimar_ warms his heart warms his heart in an inconceivable way.

"I—I should hope so," Rhodos says, and he straightens his back, "I—want to."

Sonata tilts her head towards Rhodos. "Wouldn't've expected otherwise from you, Rhodos."

It's too quick, their farewells. He steps out, his guitar slung over his shoulder, as Sonata gives him a curt nod.

Once the door clicks shut, he's left alone to the gusts of the winds and the thrashing sea and the roiling clouds.

Rhodos has never felt so _empty_ before.

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

If there's a constant in Althea's life, it's this:

She needs to win.

Her parents like to parrot the words back to her, again and again, grudgingly, coldly, almost madly: _we've invested so much money, so many resources, so much time in you, Althea, don't waste it. You will return a Victor for the Ivory name. You must win; you cannot lose._

As if she hasn't wanted it herself. But, oh, her victory wouldn't be for _them._

Althea clicks the door of her parents' house behind her. It's too suffocating—it's so _shut,_ barred-in windows and too-stoic walls. She never understood how anybody could live in there.

(Her parents always thrived in their confines of glass and quartz and gold. They had lived to shower their house in pretty decoratives—meaningless riches, lifeless symbols, emblazoned animal heads, carved stone of heroes and Victors. Her parents are in there, too, now, and she doesn't want to deal with them, but that's another matter entirely.)

She turns her way down into the sea. It's not that long way away from her parents' house—a curve down the open-green path that twists down into the beaches. They have a sea-view; but unlike the houses that line the cliffs above, they're level-ground.

Althea's fingers flitter across the strewn bushes across the way down. She'd done the same, when she was eight, twelve, fifteen, an absentminded movement which had calmed her nerves - she hadn't noticed it till Kani had pointed it out to her, amusement turning over her lips: _Althea, are you here to feel the plants?_

She'd chuckled, then, but now something else twines Althea's lips. Oh, no. It's how she _anticipates_.

Her feet finally hit the sand, and Althea makes her way into the sea. She wades in, till she's knee-deep, chest-deep, till only her head's over the waves. She closes her eyes; she inhales— _further, further_ —

Althea sinks. The sea hums by her ear; the bubbles tickle her skin. And she lets her head tilt back, and her body follows, too, till she's slant, drifting, right underneath the water's surface sheen. Till she's falling, slowly, into the sea too.

She sinks. She doesn't breathe—she doesn't need to. Kani had taught her the skill: the one thing that had helped her survive her Games, that had helped her survive in sea and sand alike. _Breathing is instinctual_ , Kani had whispered into her ear, after they'd lain on her bed, panting their night together away, _Not breathing goes against… all the tenets of human life. But if you'd steel yourself. If you'd take a breath and pretend it's your last. If you empty yourself out. You'll feel. You'll feel the breath of life against your skin, you'll feel the winds and the waves ripple through you, you'll feel stars invigorate you. And there's something so beautiful, something so rewarding… about appreciating life that way._

Althea sinks. Her breath's gone; her eyes are closed; her skin feels only the waves. For a moment, there is nothing in the world she cares for—she's _of the sea._ She's not Althea Ivory, she's not her parents' daughter, not Talon's younger sister, she's not _anything._ She's empty.

And she hasn't felt so _alive_ before.

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

He bumps into Venice on his walk back home. He'd found her by the District markets, buying the freshest fish from the stalls - halibut, the most expensive kind, just the way her husband likes it. His sister's delighted to see him: she gives him a hug which he lets himself relax into. She offers to walk him back home, and that's what they do: swaying side-by-side, in content silence.

It's unusual how the years change things. When he was fourteen, his stomach would've twisted to see his sister in their house: twenty-two, lounging in her room, working on her art without a care in the world whilst their parents focused their attention on him _\- why aren't you training more, Rhodos, you need to work harder, I've signed you up for supplementary classes, you're doing so_ poorly, _how do you expect to win the Games at this rate?_

Their words had withered him, but he'd only worked harder. He'd spent endless hours at the Academy, throwing spear after knife, not stopping even when sweat marred his brow, even when his peers had long disappeared into their parties somewhere. He worked till his trainers and mentors looked on in awe. He worked till he could see the conciliatory nod of Father, till he could earn the slight smile of Mother. It had fostered a sort of warmth in him - seeing them happy, seeing them _proud_.

However, he would always come back to find his sister in her room, doing whatever she wanted. It would constrict his stomach, the way she practiced her art without so much a complaint from their parents, and diminished the light that had flickered and lifted his heart at others' eyes.

"I haven't seen you in so long," Venice murmurs. They're strolling across the streetside, now - they're halfway away from their house, halfway until they get to the familiar sight of unkempt bushes, of a cold place chained by weary gates of iron. "I've missed you, Rhodos."

"I know," Rhodos agrees. "I've missed you a lot, too."

(He isn't lying. He hasn't had an opportunity to see Venice in a long time - not since Father and Mother told him to focus on training and had limited every kind of external interaction possible. Sometimes, he'd have old friends come over of their volition, people he hadn't seen in five or six years, who gushed about _missing him_ and saying they wished they could've talked more. Rhodos replied in kind, because their faces would light up when he did so and he wouldn't have been able to stand the expressions they might have taken on if he'd told the truth. But he never had to do that with Venice.)

"How's your husband?" he asks, almost involuntarily. The contentment in Venice's face freezes. Rhodos grimaces - _no, he didn't mean for that to happen, damnit_ \- and he backtracks quickly _._

"I mean—nevermind him, how's your art? Did you finish the art-piece of the sea - that you've told me so much about last month?"

The tension only leaves his shoulders when he sees Venice's face relax once more. "I have!" she says. "I managed to clear up the palette colours and decided to go for the bold stroke…"

Rhodos lets his sister talk - listening to her speak of visceral colours and of careless brushes and of pastels at melting tips. Her words entrance him, and settles them in a certain comfort that Rhodos thrives in. When she's done, he tells her about his music - of the new composition that he's writing, of how Sonata's doing, of his recent performances at bars.

Soon, they're by the entrance of their parents' house. They fall quiet as they approach the bushes, the iron, the doorway. Venice's eyes don't meet his. Rhodos lingers with his sister - as if he could ignore the presence of his parents' house looming above him if he did.

"Rhodos," Venice says, suddenly. "You're volunteering?"

He lets a thin smile ghost across his lips. "Yeah," he says. "I am."

Venice bites her lip. There's a dread that builds in his throat as he tries to read her, as he tries to figure out what's going on in Venice's mind. She knows what he thinks; she knows what he feels.

He wants to say— _please tell me that I shouldn't go. Please tell me that you don't want me to go._ He wants to say— _please tell me that you want me to escape, run away, disappear somewhere. Please tell me that it's what the both of us can do._ He wants to say— _please tell me it's okay to say no._

"Okay," she says. "If—if that's what you want, Rhodos."

Her reply crushes him.

He watches as Venice turns away, as she leaves him to their parents, to volunteer, to enter the Games. As she returns to her husband.

(Because there is nowhere else for either of them to go.)

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

If there's a constant in Althea's life, it's this:

She needs to win.

It's that which had led her to seek out Kani.

Kani Fairchild. District 4 Female. Victor of the 49th Games, at barely fifteen years of age. One which Talon conveniently forgot to mention.

Althea remembered watching her Games; the sun bearing down, break-dusk, against an Arena that had deteriorated from a supple sea to a dying desert in the span of five days. Strewn in mist and dust amid the dunes was Kani, and staggering before her a once-ally, the District 7 Male. Althea hadn't remembered his name when she was watching the broadcast—her eyes had been fixated upon the deadly girl with glinting grey eyes. It was one easy flick from Althea's wrist, and the hook stroked down his throat and ripped strips of skin away from him: gleaming apple-red, the colour of pulsing flesh was almost entrancing.

He'd been left for the flies when Kani had triumphed, victory glistening in her eyes. She was the originator of District 4's win-streak; and Talon its end.

Kani was nineteen, and she was fifteen when Althea had found Kani out in the District forests. Kani was staring down a stream, and Althea's breath had been taken away: she hadn't expected to find the Victor of the 49th Games so _beautiful_.

Kani had caught her stare, and she had tilted her head towards Althea. Althea had gone over to Kani, had steeled her breath, and did exactly what she came to do: she'd requested to train, to learn from the 49th Victor of the Games.

Kani had looked on, amused, till she said: _show me what you can do._

They've trained there, since. After Academy training and after she evaded her parents, Althea would come here: under the early twines of night, the twilight a smear of moss-green and sea-blue across the skies. They would fight: swords against swords, dagger against knife, legs against knees, fists against arms, skin against skin, teeth against flesh. Althea had kissed her, or Kani had kissed her - she couldn't remember, but it didn't matter. They'd kissed under the dusk and the starlight of the night. They'd kissed and they haven't stopped since: lovers of the night, wrapped in the cocoon of their solitude, nobody but them in their world under the stars.

Lovers of Victors were nothing new: but she and Kani were something else entirely. She loved the Victor of the 49th; Kani loved the Victor of the 56th. They were girls who loved; they loved a type of love Althea's parents would've never approved of, that their District wouldn't've approved of, either.

_(Perhaps there is something of love between Victors that is far too intimidating for them to fathom.)_

They'd watched the love of One and Two, together, of the 55th Games. When the rest of the District scoffed and jeered at the screen, she and Kani had watched in seclusion, in the safety of the Victor's Village. Althea's heart had ran miles after the Games' end. But it wasn't the lack of Victor that had left her so unnerved. It was the girls. They were _Careers,_ they were so close to _victory_ , they were supposed to _win_.

But they were dead girls all the same.

"We're different," Kani had murmured to Althea, after she'd spent the night, awake, tossing in bed for all the things she couldn't think. Kani's breath was a reprieve for Althea; her heart had always quelled when Kani spoke; but it hadn't this time.

"We're not dead lovers. They were tributes—they were too consumed in their love—they were doomed, Althea. But we're Victors. I am—and you'll be, too."

Her heart had stilled. Althea had turned to her, then, something pushing up her lips. "Do you think so?"

"Of course, Althea," Kani had said, and her eyes had shimmered so bright in the night, "I haven't been certain of anything more."

"Alright. But do you think I'm not," and a little smile had twitched up Althea's lips, "consumed?"

Kani had smiled back at her, then, under the stars of the night and in their Victor's home. "That's how you'll come back to me."

(And it's that night when she decides for herself: she _needs_ to win. Is there any surprise why?)


	6. The Vulture and The Dead - Interlude.

"Our tributes are ready." Elkavich states. "They should be on their way to the Capitol now."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

Snow tilts his head at her. He's near the entrance of the Gamemaker room, which would lead out to the hallways, so often bustling in the chatter of politicians and Capitolites alike, in rushing assistants and entitled little children, in the silence of traitors.

But those brink-quartz doors are shut, and it's stone-cold that she's solitary in, now.

Snow's presence is… particularly pronounced in the pristine-white Gamemaker room. An asylum, it reminds her of, or of Peacekeeper uniforms—so medical that Elkavich would rather be at a mausoleum than anyplace here.

Where were the better operative headquarters? This was… utilitarian. Spartan. Boring. In all her years as an escort, she'd supervised over a few Games herself— and they were lavish in their sparks of gold and silver gleams, flowing with luscious fruits that were fit for the gods, overspilling in their red and purple wine that would make better gluttons of men than men could make of themselves. The Gamemakers' Headquarters were one of her favourite places to visit; such a reprieve from the smogs of Eight, or the grubbiness of Three, and the monotone of Four.

(Guthrie had a nice place. Six years running the Games, he had the best headquarters of them all. Streams of crimson down the pale walls, shuffled into streamers that he'd use to taste wines, wrung from the excess of Avoxes they had no more use for. He'd always invite Elkavich to his celebratory feasts: grand and gory and glorious they were. She'd enjoyed every single one, despite the nepotism that was so present: Guthrie's daughter, Kathvarine, and so many of his family members...)

(Until, of course. Snow had let Elkavich feast her eyes upon what could be her own.)

Elkavich levels her eyes upon Snow, who stays beside the corner of the door, considering her still. She clears her throat. "What are you here for, President Snow?"

(It's far more imperative, far more—almost—defiant than she intends.)

Snow's eyes do not betray any feeling, but there's a ripple that succeeds through his cold irises. As smooth as the craven ice, he strolls towards her, his steps soundless, as if he were a ghost himself.

"Have you watched the Reapings yet, Head Gamemaker Elkavich?"

(His lips drag upon her name, like a cigar, and his breath's like stabs of ice against her cheek, and the putrid scent of _roses_ sinks into her flesh.)

 _The Reapings._ What did he want her to remember about the Reapings? She couldn't remember much of it herself. There was tribute after tribute, like year after year, and there were the Careers, year after year. She'd turned off remembering their names after her first year as an escort, and she'd stopped bothering entirely after she was elevated into a Capitol Escort _._ There were better things to deal with, after all, and counting the dead was a job for the insane.

But Snow looks at her, still, a type of amusement twitching his lips, and Elkavich's mouth turns dry at any careless remark that'll leave her lips.

"I'd seen the Eight Girl," is what Elkavich finally says, because Snow is expecting a _response,_ and District Eight is the only one she can remember that's anything _special_.

(She'd gone up the podium, a scoff curling her lips, and that was typical of older, careless, disobedient tributes—those that thought they might as well forget about the world now that they were as good as dead. Elkavich had enjoyed watching their faces transform, after they'd scorned the Capitol all the while when they were told that their families had been executed as a price for their defiance.)

(Guthrie didn't defy. His tributes were the problem. But he died still because of them.)

Her stomach clenches, now, at the thought of Eight Girl. Elkavich's jaw tightens. "She's…"

"Feisty?" Snow suggests. "Rebellious?"

Those words knot down her stomach in stones. _Feisty,_ and then she remembers the District 2 Career of the 55th Games, Maeve was her name, and she remembers Madison, the District 1 Career, _careless,_ and then she remembers Scott, the boy from District 5, _rebellious._

(Suddenly, killing her tributes become… much less an entertaining prospect.)

And when Elkavich's quiet, Snow lets a smile protrude through his lips. "We wouldn't want that now, hmm?"

(It's so much like bits of bone, his grin.)

She's quiet, and she stays in the quiet, for a moment, before she looks up to Snow. She meets his gaze; she matches his smile.

(She tries.)

"No," she says, smoothly. "We do not."

Elkavich tilts her head up. "She'll die, anyway," she says, "Soon. In the Games. But for now, she'll be entertaining. Until we remind them all—who has the authority here."

Snow considers this with a tilt of his head. "And you'll ensure it," and there's a coldness that runs down Elkavich's spine, at his words, "how?"

"Through my Arena," Elkavich says. "They'll understand the price it takes to rebel."

"Hm," Snow says, and there's a tentative pull of his lips by the corner of his mouth. "I like your sentiment, Elkavich. For your sake… I do hope that you manage to conjure an Arena… just like that one you so desire. Manage to find the _time,_ I mean."

Elkavich feels a stiffness rise up against her throat. It's bile, perhaps, but she pushes it down.

_Time._

She barely has enough of it already. And to make another Arena out of what she _has_ is no easy task. Snow knows that. And she lacks options... _solutions_...

Elkavich schools her expression instead; she tilts her head down in a nod. She will. She must. She'll _show them._

_(For her life or else.)_

After all. It wasn't as if they'd ever retaliate from the grave.

* * *

**Jordyn.**

It is the chaos of the rumble that rushes through her ears in the war room. Steps, coalescing through in clatters; metal knives unto the ground; the bustle of machinery and bombs echo through the chambers.

Jordyn takes in a breath. It's a heavy hustle in from her lips and out again, and she levels her eyes ahead. The Arena shimmers back to her, in all its golden glory: a sphere of yellow, not-so-different from the sun. She's on a podium, a stage, she has her hands, shaking, under the soft Arena's glow, she's staring at the metal of the camera that gleams at her with the wink of an evil, oil-slick eye.

A shoulder shoves into her. Jordyn stumbles forward. She recovers in a moment, and her eyes go towards whoever's knocked her over—but they're gone now, them and their carts jostling over the elevated silver circle she's on and down the steps again.

"Focus," a voice points towards her, sharp, poised like daggers against her skin. It's low, a tightened baritone, the only sound that can pierce through the noise of the room; that can shoot a shiver down her skin. Jordyn's eyes snap back forward—towards the yellow glow that envelops the Arena, to the camera again.

She breathes in; she breathes out. _Focus,_ she tells herself too, _she needs to focus._ She lets her stomach clench together; she lets steel tighten her back, her limbs, her shaking hands. There's the camera that turns a ripple up her skin, but Jordyn keeps herself together.

_Focus. Focus._

It's too cold, the beady eye that trains upon her; it's empty, almost, the glass that glints a half-light upon her; it's too steely, it's too _detached._ It roils a feeling through her throat, and Jordyn lets her half-swallow dissolve, for a moment.

_Focus. Focus._

She tries to remember the script. They've planned it out, in their meeting. She and the others and District 13. It's hard to remember, above the cluster of noises that pervade the room, but there are words that teether at the tip of her tongue, and she just has to _say them_.

(There is the black gleam of metal that stays upon her, trained, like a gun.)

"I'm not a Victor," she says, finally, half-breathless, and they tumble out of her, instantaneously, like the break of a dam into a flow, that rustles through as loud as the clanks of steps in her ears, as much as the screeches and the jolts and the fumbles, the metal-against-metal that encroaches upon their too-tight, too-confining room.

And it is Cynane's eyes that stay upon her, from the corner of the room. She mingles there, a statue encroached in shadow, and Jordyn twists her eyes back towards the camera.

 _Focus._ Focus.

"I'd like to repeat that again," she says, in an exhale, "The 55th Games has no Victor. That's what I'd like to clarify. I'm alive. But I don't _live_ because I've won. I lived because I got out. I lived because I survived."

_(There are_ _Cynane_ _'s eyes that still linger upon her; stoic, solemn, curious with a half-lifted smile, waiting.)_

"I'm a survivor," Jordyn states, and it comes out with more vigour than she'd thought it would've had; it comes out far _quieter._ "I've survived _the Capitol._ The Games. So stand with me. Stand for your people. Your Districts. Stand with the... Vultures."

(That metal piece questions her, with half a tip of a smile, that black metal that rests upon the stands.)

A quietude exudes through the room, once the camera clicks off. There is the bustle that continues, of course; but the figure in the corner considers her, with a taut-lip drawn across her face, with the cock of her head. And Jordyn forces her feelings to quell.

Time drags on. It's tight against her chest, it's _suffocating_ in her throat, it wraps her in so much anxiety and doesn't let her go from its grasp. Cynane stares at her; Jordyn doesn't dare look back.

And finally, _finally,_ until too much time's gone on until Jordyn can barely feel anything but numbness, Cynane tilts her head. Cynane smiles.

There are words that string across her lips, ones that dance in their mysticism; in their mysteriousness; in a cold, hard, twinkle. "Thank you, Jordyn," the President of District 13 says, and—

Jordyn breathes again.


	7. The Shrewd and The Screwed - Train Rides, Part 1.

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

It's cool, the way Dior considers him.

It's awkward, too. Every jostle the train makes fluctuates through them, like the shakes of his bicycle on the bumpier roads of Coal, and Chrys is caught between commenting something dry and maybe icebreaking _(like, this's real fun, that should work, right?),_ or settling for just keeping up with the staring game that they've got on right now.

She's taking him in. She's considering him, _(his face, his shaggy buzzcut, his pale blue eyes)_ , observing him, _(his slight muscles, his lean strength, his maybe-power)_ , watching him, _(his actions, what he'll do, what he makes of her),_ she's _thinking._

And it constricts a tight ball in his stomach, once Chrys realises what exactly it is she's doing.

She's thinking about how she'll kill him.

(It shouldn't unnerve him. It shouldn't rattle his breaths—it shouldn't settle so deeply in his bones. Really—he'd known that. He'd _prepared_ for it. They were competition, after all, and there was one Victor, after all, but—)

(He hadn't expected it so early.)

Chrys lets his eyes flick away from Dior. Carefully. _Casually._ As if he'd barely noticed her staring.

(It wasn't as if he was intimidated. _Chrys_ was the intimidator here—he was the person that trainee kids scattered at the sight. He was the one that cared fuck-all for all but Nemesis and Clay. He was the machine at training and that was all anyone but his family would see of him in District One. Brazen; terrifying; strong.)

What he does, instead, is that he checks in Dior's threat level. He's made up the system when he was thirteen and fresh into the Academy, only a face in a sea of em that'll be all but forgotten unless they were good enough to be _remembered._ He watched them all in training; in breaks; in aftersessions, and he'd rated them all, on the scale of one to ten, how much better they were than him. He'd take in their skills, their _strategies,_ their abilities. And he'd make up a plan to beat them.

He'd rinsed and repeated till everybody in the Academy _(in his grade, at least),_ represented no more than a one. It was only with that which he steeled himself enough to _volunteer,_ that knowledge that he was the best in One _,_ else he wouldn't've been able to deal with Emilio's terrified eyes _(Chrys, I'm—I'm scared, I don't want you to die),_ Nemesis's grinning salute _(I'll see you on the other side)_ , or his father's pained smile, _(Chrys, please, don't do this, I don't want to say goodbye…)_

Dior's a solid ten. She's perceptive _(been analysing him since he'd stepped on the train)_ , she's powerful _(he'd seen her in the training centre, saw glimpses of how she switches from sickles to knives, wielding them like they're water, silver shards that'll cut in their dance),_ she's stoic _(so aloof, feelings and a lack thereof, it's got to be advantageous)_.

But most importantly, she's _cold_. She wouldn't have a problem taking a life, or two, and she'd take twenty-three of them all to climb her way to the Victor's throne. When Dior had strolled onto the Reaping stage, he'd seen her conviction. Rod-backed, chin up, gazing down. The people had _parted_ for her, like the sea's waves themselves. There was a gaunt glint in her eyes, so _determined_ in their coolness that he couldn't miss—and that's shackled a coldness into his stomach that stays with him, still.

It shakes him, because—how did he miss her? He couldn't have— he made sure he'd taken everybody _into_ account _,_ he had _to—_ but he'd forgotten about Dior Marini.

And Chrys is going into the Games with her.

(And that fact is as heavy as stone in his chest; it weighs him down and sinks into the soles of his feet. Nauseousness bubbles up against his throat, and the vertiginous shuddering of the trains take him, but nothing can keep his mind off Dior Marini's eyes.)

And now, it is only Emilio's words that echo in his head—those he'd dismissed and shrugged off and smiled at and reassured and forgotten—

_You could die in there, Chrys._

It solidifies, like ice, in his heart.

(And for once—Chrys feels terrified.)

But he shoves it back in himself, smiles up a bravado, and gestures to the girl on the other side of the train. "Don't think we've met properly yet. I'm Chrys. And you?"

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

Her District Partner's… interesting.

He's confident. But he isn't exactly cocky. He swears like the tributes from Four. She'd heard him in the Academy—his rough baritone had ricocheted across the walls, and it had irritated her; she was trying to _train,_ and she didn't need any distractions, particularly absurd ones like his. But he shifts when he talks to trainers, to Victors, to escorts—he changes for the people that matter.

Chrys is brazen: Dior had seen how he fights. Demolishing trainers like they were nothing; butchering dummies with increasingly convoluted battle manoeuvres that made her roll her eyes. But he is introspective. Analytical, perhaps. He'd been watching her since they'd arrived on the trains, and she had found herself looking back, with a same sort of wariness tightening her jaw.

Chrys's arms are sprawled over the row of seats and his eyes are on her. He's _waiting_ for her. His head's tilts, slightly, and she knows what Chrys expects.

(There's a coldness that coalesces in her throat.)

"Dior Marini," she says, and she lets her name linger in the air between them. It simmers between, like frothing mist, pricking against her skin. It's unusually hot, here, despite the draughts of air that ruffle through them from the train's ceilings.

 _(Mattie Marini, those were the words that should've been spoken here, now. Mattie Marini, not_ Dior, _Mattie should've been the one going into the Games, should've been the one entering, coming out victorious, not dead, her neck glistening in an eternal chokehold, not gone somewhere, bleeding away in a ditch, forgotten—)_

"I've seen you around the Academy," Chrys says. "You train well."

Dior nearly snorts. _Of course,_ tethers on the tip of her tongue. _Why else do you think I'm here?_

 _(Because you're inadequate, because you should've been here two years ago,_ Dior, _if only you'd trained well enough—)_

"I've seen you, Chrys." Dior says, and she orders the words carefully on her tongue. "The Machine."

He flushes. He rubs the back of his head, ruffling through his shaggy blonde hair. But it's not in embarrassment; it's pride, instead, that lingers upon him. "That I am," he quips, and that is all it is to that.

It constricts Dior's stomach tighter. He's here because he's the _best_. She'd heard that stupid nickname throughout the Academy. So much on the lips of younger years; children looking up to Chrys Gerhart in far too much awe, of trainers glancing at Chrys in an admirable light, of Capitolians, even, being told of the top kid of class fifty-six's nickname: _The Machine_. All embodied in how he'd fought through training sessions; destroying everything in his vicinity with precision, wrung in so much power, but Dior could see that it really was for show than any actual strategy. Still, though, it made an air of intimidation that warned anybody that got too close.

(It made her sneer, then. It still makes her sneer, now.)

"What are you doing here, Chrys?" Dior says. She tilts her head to the side; relaxes back against her seat; fixes a glance onto him. It's tinged with a tightness: she knows exactly _why_ he's here. He's here because he's on the top of his classes. He's here because he wants glory _,_ wants prestige _;_ she can see it in his eyes, in his smile.

Chrys stiffens, under her gaze. It's a minuscule change; a ripple across his skin, like a lion's prickling mane.

"Well," Chrys finally says, after what is too long a time broached between them. "We're not here for the same reasons."

Dior thinks about Mattie; about the Victor's pendant that should've lined down her collarbone; about the silver string that had intertwined her neck, instead, and the red that leaked from its embrace.

 _No._ _We are not._

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

He's uneasy.

Hera's there, on the other side of the train, sitting on the rows of seats like it were a bed. She's got a dazed smile on her face, one so dull and away that it leaves him unsteady. Hera's in her world, Kiernan can tell. He's too familiar with that look on her face— _that unreality inscribed on her face, that floaty distance that goes through her eyes, that giddy smile_ —

Kiernan can't care less, though. He can't—he _shouldn't,_ it shouldn't matter—not at all. She's dead and he's here and that's what should matter right now.

(It constricts his stomach. _Yes, that's what matters now._ That he's here. That he's _fucking here_ at all.)

He grips against the seats underneath him. They deflate under his palms, plush-soft against his touch. His fingernails dig in, till the cover rips. He focuses his eyes on the carpet in front of him. It's made out of grey wool: and it's given way under his feet, weak against the soles of his feet, too, so _easy_ under his step after he'd entered onto the train.

Everything in the Capitol has been only wispy so far; the fluff and pomp that dresses their carriage is like cotton clouds and sheep's wool. It's so incredulously pulpy that it isn't quite real. Maeve would've liked it; would've loved the ethereality of the place: the mushy sofas, the slushy winds, the effervescent blue drinks.

Kiernan wonders what it'll feel like to have it collapse underneath him.

(And Hera's incessant laughter resounds throughout the air, still, despite where he stares, and he hasn't found it harder to breathe then.)

Kiernan wants to go. No, not that—he wants to do something. _Punch her? Yell at her? Shake her out of it?_

(It's almost ridiculous, fathoming the thought, but he bristles still. Her laughter's still high-loud, and it makes him want to—)

Kiernan's eyes snap up towards hers. He isn't gonna take it anymore— _no,_ and the words gnash out of his teeth, mangles in ways which he knows how, and he knows what he's about to say, _stop-it-stop-acting-like-that_ —

Hera stares at him. Her hazel eyes stare back at him. She isn't lying across the length of the seats, she isn't anywhere near. She's sat up, and she's looking at him, with—

 _(Not blue._ Not blue eyes.)

And Kiernan jolts. His words— _what words were they anyway, excruciating words, words he can't remember—_ fall back into his throat. And he stares at her, as she cocks her head at him, _considers_ him.

It dries his mouth out. It swallows a stiffness back into his throat. It roils feelings inside of him, _pain-anger-hurt-joy-why—_

It makes him want to laugh.

She's still high in her haven. She's still _there._ And still she's staring at him with _pity,_ so much patronising _pity_ that he wants to scream, because it's just like that night, then, with Maeve and him high-up in their bunker bed and—

"Are… are y-you okay?"

Kiernan's heart drops into his stomach. Snow shifts through his skin, worms through him, knots his chest, _so tight,_ he can't—

_(Does she seriously have to speak like how she speaks, too?)_

A splutter exits his lips. And he gasps, he can't—no, he can't take out his inhaler, he can't seem _weaker_ than he already is in front of them all now. Hera's still _staring,_ scrutinising, she's opening her mouth, now, speaking, now—

"Kiernan… that's your name, right?"

He closes his eyes. He opens them, again. "Yes."

Hera's still incoherent. Because nothing that indicates she hears him flickers over her expression, and he's about to scoff, because _of course_ he'll have to deal with another mentally fucked-up person again, _of course_ she's his District Partner, _of course_ he'll be going through the Games with _her—_

"Are you okay?"

It's quieter, now, her words. There's a slight, sad, understanding that stays upon Hera's eyes. _Recognition_. Understanding.

_(Understanding?)_

"I'm fine," he says, tight, and the words roll off his lips— before he can stop them, before he can control himself at all. "You'd reminded me of someone I... used to know."

He breaks away from Hera's gaze, and stares off into the too-high windows that blur the landscape beside him.

But he still feels the weight of her eyes upon him.


	8. The Cold and The Callous - Train Rides, Part 2.

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

The boy's ignoring her.

He's been doing that since they've stepped on the train. She thinks. Hera isn't quite clear on that. Glaring, scowly, resentful; he cycles through those feelings like they're on a merry-go-round. It's fun, staring at his face, and trying to figure out what he was feeling in moments there and then. What was his name again?

She knew she'd asked. Maybe a few moments before. It's floating away from her. K. It started with a K.

It doesn't matter. She's swaying. She's in cool-crisp fields. She's loved by the winds. She's soaked in snow. She's swollen in euphoria.

And Hera feels victorious.

(She doesn't remember how she's got to this stage. She never remembers, really: it's a jolt and everything she's thought dissolves, and then she's in the soft mist, in the pretty bliss.)

It doesn't matter, anyhow. How she got here. She's on a train, she'd volunteered to play, she'd—

(She'd plunged into the remnants of her drugs before the Games. It was after the ransacking: her fingers had rummaged for her, and she'd drifted in a haziness, and colours of all white-kaleidoscopic sorts ate at her eyes. Emotions pulsed in her skin, _it's your last time, anyway, better not let em all go to waste, before you go cold turkey, ey?_ )

_Yes, better use up all your supply. It's what you deserve before you die!_

She blinks. And lets out a half-laugh. It's shaking under her breath. _Die_ , but those words aren't really what she's feeling, even if she sees her father and her mother's eyes, not really, what sticks is _cold turkey,_ and it's those words that coalesce in her stomach, that squeezes her baby-soft skin, that knots a strangled creature in her throat.

(When will she crash? It's soon, she knows, in the glimmer of sense that resides in her, through the stars that puree their glow upon her skin. She's stayed too long in _bliss._ It'll cave under her, and she'll gasp for breath, and she'll rummage for powder, feather, snow, anything that'll spring wings on her back and infuse her with the freedom of air. She'll look, she'll find, she has pockets and she'll have to have _something_ , _somewhere_ , right?)

Her fingers slither into her clothes. Hera's jaw goes gaunt. It's only the fluff of her pocket she feels. It's _empty._ It's _empty—how can it be empty?_

Nobody's touched anything of hers. She thought—she had to have a little packet near. It couldn't've fallen out after the Reapings—maybe it titled out when the escort raised her hand a little too high in the air, or maybe it spilled on the ground when she was being probed towards the trains, or maybe it was _K_ , _what's-his-name_ , her District Partner, he had to be staring at her like that for a reason, right? He couldn't have—but his _eyes,_ they tell Hera he _knows,_ wet and so raw in his anger, he _knows_ something about her, and—

_(He's taken something from her soul. He sees her, so clear, he's piercing.)_

It constricts her, so tight, gathers ice in the pits of her gut and weighs her down. It's becoming clearer now, her District Partner's face, that scowl on him, she squints, she can almost make it out, he's not _blurry_ anymore, _she can tell—_

(No. _No._ Hera's never gotten this _high_ before. It can't be so quick. She's still in that happiness, she's still in bliss, she's still—she's still okay, she must be, she needs to be, she—)

She closes her eyes.

It's ridiculous. She's on the _trains (metal and wheels, a chugging machine, moving a dozen miles an hour, that's wild),_ she's _volunteered (her parents' dreams, she's in clouds),_ she has a _twelve-year old_ for a District Partner _(that doesn't happen in District 2, never ever, only competent volunteers, like Maeve last Games)_ , and Hera's _high_ amid it all _(in the worst places possible, that was a dare from her friends, and she'll be going cold-turkey soon, soon, now—)_

(Hera closes her eyes and stays in her bliss. It's a pretty feeling that stays through her skin, moment-by-moment, second-by-second, and if she lasts long enough, she'll last for eternity there.)

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

Rhodos gazes at his feet, and at the way they shake under the rumble of the train.

It's a calming sort of sound: a rhythmic quiver, perhaps, that strums against his skin. A low noise, a low bass, maybe, a sound that he might be able to incorporate in his compositions. It's too quiet to be a star of a piece, but it'll add another layer to a thrum that he quite likes.

He's averted his eyes away from Althea's, ever since they'd boarded the train. She had looked vindicated; almost victorious, after she had ascended the Reaping stage, but she'd immediately shut down after—face closed-off, a coolness to her stance and her poise. It was the same type of dignified air that he'd seen his parents bolster up in the Victor afterparties; but unlike them, she was practised, and truly a part of the aristocracy.

Althea Ivory. He recognises the name. He _knows_ her. He'd seen her in every single Victor afterparty of Four—throughout their District's win-streak, up until the 53rd Games. Althea's father and her mother had been the hosts to Kani Fairchild's Victor afterparty in the 49th Games, to the leadup of the volunteering of their son—Talon Ivory, was it?—in the 53rd Games.

His family had gained extended invitations to the Ivory's parties, and his father had often bragged of being a _friend of theirs._ Rhodos had always thought that _acquaintance_ would be a better way to put it, but, polite to a fault, he had never said anything.

They had seen each other around the parties. Or at least—Rhodos had. He remembers watching Althea in her hazel dress, the colour matching her chestnut hair, chatting up a few other wealthy party patrons. Her winning smile made the rich to fawn; it made the less-fortunate look.

He had become accustomed to seeing her perenially. There's one particularly awkward incident he remembers, where his parents had managed to snag the Ivory's for a talk, and had left him beside a high table next to Althea. He didn't quite know how to start conversation, because while he could carry a conversation easy, Althea had appeared so composed and cold, and so he'd fumbled under the quiet darkness of the blue lights. Althea hadn't bothered to say anything, either, so they'd stewed in that excruciating silence until their parents had returned for them.

It'd always stayed in the back of his mind that she would volunteer. Aside from the party patrons, he'd seen her around the Academy, her name ranking somewhere amid the top three in the leaderboard. He'd seen Althea with her gaggle of friends; a dozen of them that would do anything upon a whim of her wish. Universally-praised, he assumes: she's good at what she does.

But he didn't quite expect it to be… this Games.

And Althea's just like how she is during the Victor afterparties. He knows that she's _nice;_ he'd seen her act around the patrons and her friends, after all—but there's something about her cool insouciance that disturbs him.

Rhodos's mind races. Althea… he should say something to her. Anything. It's quiet in the room, as it is, now, except for the hums of the train's chugging. He'd usually be quite content to stay and listen to the rhythm; as he had with Mrs. Larimar, where she'd turn on the stereo and they'd bask in the music together _._

But this silence is suffocating.

"You're… the Ivory's daughter, right?"

(And after he says it, he winces at his own words. It'd sound as if he wasn't paying attention, but he didn't mean it like that at all—he was just finding _somewhere_ to start.)

Althea's head jolts up to meet his. A defensive air permeates her gaze, and Rhodos's gut plummets.

"I am," she says, after a long pause. And there's no lie about it—the eyes that meet his are cold. "What about them?"

She's on edge. And Rhodos wants to slap himself, he wants to _backtrack._ Wants to pretend that nothing had happened at all; they could stay in the silence again, and not this one festering with tension.

(But despite it all, despite the weight of the atmosphere the fettering his heart, he feels a warmth line his chest. _Althea doesn't like her parents,_ he thinks, realises _, either._ )

Rhodos can't say something like that outright, though — it would be brash, and he'd end up on the receiving end of a glare, and then he'd wither inside for what he'd done to her. But that _idea_ strings in his head— _doesn't like her parents; no more than I do?_ —and he can't resist.

"… how are they?" he says, after a long while. Rhodos isn't quite sure why the words spill from his mouth; but they do, anyway. "… decent?"

He gauges Althea's face, carefully, for any sort of reaction. He's scared he'll make her shut down; that she'll end up closing-up even more, that puzzle reconfiguring into an enigma, and then he'll be left with nothing but regret, _stupid, stupid, Rhodos—_

Althea snorts, loud as a cow. "Yeah, sure."

He stills. His eyes widen, slightly, at the implication; and Althea sees him, the ways his eyes go, and her face reconfigures itself. Her expression morphs into a point of impassivity again—like she hasn't said anything at all—and stays there.

(And it shrivels Rhodos's stomach into discomfort, because _damnit,_ he'd messed up, and now she's _uncomfortable,_ probably, that was the last thing he'd wanted—but at the same time, it rises a hope in him.)

_(Perhaps…)_

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4 Female.**

There is something that clenches her heart after her words leave her mouth.

 _Yeah, sure._ It's too offhand, too quick, too caustic, too insouciant, too casual. It's a slip.

(She'd make them with Kani, just fine, when they were in bed together under the basking night, in a home together where it's just them against the world. But it's only in the haze of Kani's arms; protective against the shrapnel of night stars, when Althea would let her secrets leak from the crevice of her heart.)

But she is in an empty train, and she is a dozen miles away from home.

Althea looks out of the windows. Rhodos's gaze lasts upon her—prying, guilty, hopeful, any of the three—but Althea doesn't turn to him to speak.

(It's already too close to her chest, the subject of her parents, and the last thing she wants to do is to bring them up. It drives a chink in her armour, because Rhodos knows, now, that she isn't a fan of them— and that leaves her exposed. It's the type of thing she'd only mention to Kani, because that's the only place it's safe to say, without the needles of the air pricking her skin, a _reminder_ that the knowledge would be used against her.)

It's why she stares off into the windows. She's sat lengthwise across the plush seats, an arm plopped on one of her raised legs. It's how she keeps her eyes away from Rhodos while maintaining the same pretence—aloof, impartial, uncaring.

(It wasn't in her plans, really, to act like this at all. Her plan was to sway her District Partner over, to convince them to ally, and it was this which would provide her a stepping-stone towards the Victor's crown. Already a leg-up from Talon, who thought it'd be a good idea to make death threats to his District Partner seven times over.)

But Althea hadn't expected Rhodos's name to be called. It wasn't like she knew him, really, at all—she'd seen him around her parents' Victor afterparties, a few years ago, before Talon bit the dust—and that was all there was to it.

But something else had tugged against her: when she'd seen him dragged about by his parents, being shown-off like a racehorse. Her stomach had clenched at the way he smiled like a gleeful puppy. So _eager,_ so quick to please. Gazing up to his parents for approval, and it was practically pitiful, the way he'd acted.

"Althea…?"

It's hesitant; it's uncertain; it's barely there. Althea wants to look away from the window _—_ but she can't quite even form the words against her throat to speak. They latch against her throat and leave her so _sullen,_ so _quiet,_ so _wordless._

"You don't like your parents?"

Rhodos. Again. Persistent; _prying_. It entrenches a dryness in her bones.

She should shut him down. Yes, no—it's _revealing too much._ To an enemy; a competitor in an Arena, somebody that'll meet the skewer of her spear in a week's time. Rhodos is a person _she barely knows;_ and Althea's weaknesses glitter upon her skin like links in chainmail ready to go: _my family's shit, my parents don't believe in me, but I'm volunteering anyway, going against the grain, what do you think?_

Althea'll do it with a smile, and then she'll laugh it off, easy: the people will blink, and they'll guffaw. She'll please the sponsors that encroach upon her: _charismatic and funny and sarcastic, would you look at her? Althea Ivory for District Four, please!_

But is that hope in Rhodos's eyes?

"They're…" and Althea swallows, she doesn't know why the words extricate from her throat, but they _do_ , and she lets up a breath, admits, "… they're not the best."

(She hasn't been this honest to anybody that wasn't Kani before.)

It's uncomfortable, waiting for Rhodos's response. Althea flicks her eyes over to Rhodos's, temporarily, and she feels a thickness fight itself against her skin: she needs to make sure it isn't _surprise,_ isn't _realisation,_ isn't _calculation_ that makes its way across his features, that'll tell her _so well_ of the mistake she's made. And of what she'll have to do to him for it.

Relief— _is that what it is?_ —washes through Rhodos's eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says, quietly. "Mine aren't, either."

He lets the words linger upon the air, and Althea doesn't know how to feel. A roil of thoughts wrack through her brain: for what they mean for her, what they mean for Rhodos. What they mean for both of them.

But it's comforting, almost, having the quietude swallow them together. And she doesn't mind the silence, not as much as she should, at all.


	9. The Grim and The Grandiose - Capitol Arrival.

**Althea Ivory. District 4 Female.**

The Capitol is obscene in its glory.

It's the _light_ that attacks Althea first. Her eyes blink as they adjust to the sheen bouncing off the train's silver, and it's blinding, it's so _bright_. Light adorns the Capitol. It shakes the grounds with diamonds; leaves sprinkling glass with every crunch of her step. Dazzles of pearls smear across the grandiose buildings reaching ten-feet tall, and it's almost like District 4, reincarnated, remade _._ It's grandiose; ornate; declamatory; pontifical. The Capitol: their strength dashed in air, in their flair and ridiculous fanfare.

Althea doesn't care. It's really just a place, making up for what it lacks. The Capitol's emasculated, castrated. They venerate themselves with their plaques, as if their excessively grand air could compensate. They demonstrate with the Games, like megalomaniacs, as if that could strengthen their slave state. But it's quite listless—pathetic.

(It's a little funny if she dwells upon it. But she doesn't need to. It's inconsequential, really—the Capitol's reason for the Games do not matter towards _victory._ And victory is what she needs.)

Needs—because that's how she'll show her District just how capable she is. Needs— because that's how she'll be able to live in the Victor's Village, forever, with Kani, so far away from home. Invincible, immortal, irreverent; where nobody'll be able to touch either of them.

The Capitol will be her vehicle. Sure, they may be ridiculous— with their frivolous dress-up games and their bleach-pale skin that makes their frail bodies weaker than they are; with how they gorge upon entertainment, like death were nothing more than sweets— but they're a means to an end. And that's how Althea'll get there.

To what she wants.

So she turns her eyes up ahead of her, as she's marched down away from her train, flanked by four—no, six Peacekeepers by her side, towards the wide, open, gleaming square of the Capitol. The other tributes are getting the same treatment—there's a boy with strawberry-blonde hair that's being escorted, along with a dark-haired girl; there's a woozy girl that's stumbling and a… boy, a _child,_ too, that's being brought to the centre of the square.

No, not _tributes_. It's the _Careers_.

District One is… intimidating. While the boy has no muscles to show of— _not like Talon's, who'd always flex when given the opportunity—_ he's still incredibly lean and athletic. It's a cyclist's build that he has; and Althea wonders what tricks he has up his sleeve, especially to be chosen to come here.

But the girl's another story entirely. Built like a dancer if dancers had muscles to show; she's undoubtedly _strong,_ and undoubtedly _fluid,_ too. It's the type that she'd always admired back in the Academy, that she'd always been jealous of because they somehow managed to combine fluidity with brute strength. A dark intensity burns in the girl's eyes, that oozes like festering pits from the rot of hell.

(That girl. That girl is who Althea'll watch out for.)

Compared to District One, District Two is so obviously… deficient. She's not gonna start on the kid—he's a weakling, and he'll probably die on the first day. Althea doesn't care how, but he's practically a walking corpse at this point.

The girl, however… is interesting. She's strong. She's not District One levels of strong, of course, but she's got muscles that remind Althea of herself. But there's a glaze in her eyes that leaves Althea with an impression that she was blind—till she snaps out of it with a half-almost smile.

(District Two Girl. Mentally unprepared.)

Althea knows they're analysing, too—for who's the weakest, who's the menace, who's the first dead, who's the _survivor._

So Althea relaxes her posture. Pushes her shoulders back; she's _unassuming,_ she _doesn't matter._ Makes her eyes crinkle, her fists relax; _she's unprepared, she's cursory, she doesn't care._ Lets a slight smile rest on her face; _she's weak, she's frivolous, she's just another one of those stupid little Career girls that die in the Bloodbath._

Althea puts her armour back on and smiles.

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2 Female.**

It's unusual, seizing up the other Careers.

Maybe because when she faces off other people, it's usually when she's… sober. Sober and conscious and _aware_. But now, still in her afterbliss, she's… floaty. Happy. Ethereal. Okay.

(Not down-in-the-dumps. Not crying her eyes out. Not grasping for _more,_ for those too-light feathers to environ her skin, because she's still living in that bliss, for a bit, for a minute, and she can convince herself that it'll stay like this, for a bit, for a minute, and another, and another, and…)

They're…

Hera can't quite collect her thoughts. There are _faces_ that form in her eyes, yes, but they don't mean anything to her. They're just… faces. Bobbing in mist.

(Soon-to-be-dead faces. Skewered faces, cracked faces, broken faces. Left-on-the mantle-of-a-child's-neck-faces.)

They're… faces. Faces that become scarred masks that tributes wear, for show, to the Capitol, for the blood it seizes from them.

Blood. It sticks in her mouth: that foul magnetic sensation. One she'd felt when she was slapped in the face by a boy during training. It's one that dribbled down her lips and had grafted upon her skin. Synthetic. One that her parents have drenched her lungs in. As if it were an anaesthetic and not apheretic. Red. Analgesic; copasetic…

She feels it already in her mouth.

(Why does the Capitol love it so much?)

Blood pervades her in copper and metal, it makes her so putrid _._ It subsumes into her skin and makes her so much _not-herself._ But she _needs_ it. Her father will watch her. _That's my girl. Look at her go. Murdering all four of em in the Bloodbath. I couldn't be prouder._ And her mother. _Don't waste our efforts, Hera. Blood is blood; I don't care what you think. I'm sorry, love, but you need to win._

(The Capitol likes the feeling, Hera supposes. Perhaps they are all paraphiliacs; sadists; symphorophiliacs. But how likely is that? Perhaps it's a punishment for them, too. Like how it is for the Districts. Maybe they don't _like_ to watch the blood. Maybe it's… maybe it's just…)

Wouldn't it be nice to think that?

There are more Peacekeepers than usual, scattered across the square. They're blobs, little blurred figures and silhouettes in the sameness of the too-grand Capitol. If she fits them with wings, they might almost look like doves.

Doves. A swarm of them… too many, too _much_. More than those at home… and there was a _lot_ at home. Since the riots sprung up and waged a conflagration across the District, because of something that the last Two girl did. Pockets of rebellion would be caught by a dozen of them, letting loose explosions in their feathered uniforms.

But it's not even that. There's an _army_ of Peacekeepers here. More than enough to control even the worst outbreaks in Two.

It twinges at her, dimly… _more Peacekeepers_ have to mean something. And she's thinking, she's _trying_ to think, _why did she take so many drugs, fuck, she can't think—_

But there's something that's mismatched from the rest.

A woman. A figure. She's in the centre of them all. The Peacekeepers all flank her, and they're like swans, fluttering behind the mother.

The leader.

It a dryness that first starts in Hera's throat. A scratchiness that signifies the aftermath of too much alcohol; too many drugs. But it spreads like an infection and then she's halfway _coughing_ and her lungs are _choking_ and _oh no oh no_ her vision's so _clear_ —

Hera sees the leader. She's a pretty woman, shoulders back, head tilted up, an air of solemn distance that stays with her. Darkness roils inside her cold eyes; her power exudes through her posture.

_She's waiting, she's wanting, they're here for, she's here for…_

_Blood._

"Welcome," the Leader says, a smile flitting in her voice, eyes flicking between Career to Career, "To the Games."

The Leader gazes. Tribute to tribute, creature to creature, bodies to bodies, flesh to flesh. Bone and ash; soon to be dust. Because of how much they want—

Blood. It must be like a drug.

(And can she blame them at all?)

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4 Male.**

The Head Gamemaker takes in him in like he's a specimen.

Rhodos keeps himself still. He evades her gaze; lush in raven-blackness, sparkling with glitz that reminds him of an abyss—

(But he's here, anyway. He's _volunteered,_ anyway. He's signed up for this—hasn't he?)

He looks, instead, upon the platinum palace that makes the scenery. Although it is dim in the din of dusk, the balusters of quartz and the pilasters of marble turn the despondent place so much so into a sun-spangled display.

The Capitol. Too large. Too powerful. Levelled in its marble and crystals, in its diamonds and quartz, unbreakable, untouchable—and he, what is he to all of this?

(A student. A volunteer. A tribute. Nothing, really, but what the Capitol wants. They and their phantom hand; that'd descended, into his life, to push him up and play dress-up: _student, volunteer, tribute._ They and their hand, that'd infiltrated the minds of his parents; _fight with vigour and you'd be a Victor, comply and we'll let you make music on the side._ They and their hand, and just how much they like to strangle: _you're a volunteer, you're here to fight, we've brought you out of your life to survive_.)

A tut. Rhodos's eyes snap back towards the Head Gamemaker, and the coalescing blackness in them is enough to make him look away immediately.

It's not just _observance_ —it's _disapproval_ , it's _dissatisfaction_ , it's _disappointment_. That's what's in the Head Gamemaker's eyes.

"Rhodos McNamara," she drawls, and the notes shred his skin, sinking in him like shards. "My District Four Male. Were you concentrating on what I was saying at all?"

(He was. He was listening: first, there, _welcome to the Games,_ then, next, _I'm glad you were all here,_ and after, _you were chosen for a reason,_ and fourth, _you should prove yourselves in the Arena,_ and fifth, _I hope you're listening, tributes, because this is important.)_

"I am," Rhodos says, his throat so tight, his words as quick as they can be. Because it wasn't what he'd intended, he didn't want to seem like he was _ignoring_ her, no, he just couldn't look at her face, he was _listening,_ he wouldn't've dreamed not to—

A half-smile twists the Head Gamemaker's lips. "I'd thought so, Rhodos," she says. "Snow had always thought that you'd looked attentive."

The other Careers are staring at him now. Rhodos swallows and finds another spot in the horizon to glance at.

Fear roils in his chest, just as pride swells in his heart. And guilt sloshes in his stomach for the latter, because two weeks before the Reapings, Snow had visited Four.

(He still remembers the way his eyes had taken in his male training group: piercing and cold and supercilious. Rhodos had always kept his head bowed, even as the others hesitantly looked at the President of Panem.)

Judging by the looks of the other Careers—and even Althea—visits from President Snow were not common.

Rhodos forces down a gulp. Bitterness. Frostiness. _Anger._ It's crushing in his chest; knowing that they were envious of him. He didn't _mean_ to have Snow visit; he didn't know why Snow picked him out in particular. It wasn't as if he asked for it—he'd just met the rest of the Careers, but they'd have certainly deserved the visit far more than him.

He lifts his eyes to meet the Head Gamemaker's for a moment, unsteadily, and his mouth opens as if to ask the question itself. But he closes it immediately— _what are you thinking, you'd interrupted her once already, she'd have far better to do than to be bothered with your problems—_

"I am sure," the Head Gamemaker says, "—that you have all been aware of the recent riots and so-called "uprisings" in your Districts. You have been chosen, this year, for that specific reason: we do not want the unpredictability of a _bowl_ to change the course of the Games."

Rhodos doesn't need to think to know what the Head Gamemaker's talking about. Last year, there had been far more wiggle room in selecting the Careers: every Academy would pick their top choices and come to a consensus, ultimately allowing the student a choice to volunteer or not. But this time was different; the tributes had been directly ordered from the Capitol. He'd be surprised if it hadn't had anything to do with the 55th Games at all.

(Rebels, kids; a mess. Career rebels; romance; everything cataclysmic served up on a platter.)

The Head Gamemaker's eyes linger upon them all. And it rises his heart: he's been chosen by them. _Recognised_. Seen.

"However, this also means that you'll have to represent your District," and the Head Gamemaker's voice drops low down into a baritone; like she's keeping a secret. "We require you to play a normal Games. Kill the troublesome first. Kill the dissenting first. Kill the chaotic ones first. I want this to be a slaughterhouse Games. Understood?"

Dior—District One girl—is the first to nod. The District One boy, Chrys, is a little more uncertain, but concedes with a _yes_. That twelve-year-old from Two— _Kiernan, was it?_ — has his jaw set gaunt, his fingers gripped into a fist, but an agreement gets out his lips. Hera—Two Girl that looks a bit tipsy—bobs her head a few times. Althea doesn't hesitate, and another nod goes the Head Gamemaker's way, too.

Her eyes fixate upon him. The Head Gamemaker cocks his head: like she's weighing him in; _how valuable he is_. Rhodos swallows; now's the moment when she'll find out he's no good at all, now's when she'll find out that she and Snow's made the wrong decision, now's the moment when everything blows up—

"Remind the Capitol why the Careers are so beloved by us, Rhodos," she says. "Won't you?"

Something as soft as a pick brushes against his nerves. And then again, and again, and again still; like they're making a crescendo.

He knows what they're asking of him: _give us a show, Rhodos, and maybe then you'll be able to return to your life as normal_.

It's the Capitol. It's the Gamemakers. _It's what they do._

And Rhodos tilts his head down.


	10. The Acing and The Aching - Chariots.

**Hera Dalenka. District 2 Female.**

It's not nice; being touched. She's never liked it— never in the Academy (a fist to her face, legs swept from under, her skin, so cold, sweat-coated—)

Hera squirms. It's not—she's never liked the feeling. Her mom's always been the one to powder and puff her cheeks and her lips; dousing her in blobs of cream, smearing her in wafts of bliss, scattering red-blue-orange-green on her skin— _all the colours combined, churning, so pretty, she'll touch it and it'd foam, explode—_

But once it's done—once she's waded through the parade and watched their eyes be amazed and afraid and once she unclasps her braids and leaves her masquerade, once she stares at herself in the mirror and sees what they've made—

Hera is not reflected. She is a thing— artificial, dolled-up, created. That is all she has seen, before: and that is all she sees, now.

(Too many times. Concealer and foundation and mascara up her face; blush and bronzer and highlighter down her cheeks; that is the same self she makes in front of the mirror.)

And now Hera has her hands squeezed between her legs; she has her shoulders, shrunken-in. She has her eyes, cast-down at the ground; and on her skin's the buzz of shears, the chatter of the Capitolians, so _alien_ , roaming hands, smearing her in froth and butter, roaming touches, so warm, so _unwanted_ , out of her control, she can't, they're _roaming,_ she's helpless, it's—

They ask her things; but their voices are an Avox's chatter, incoherent, inviolable, and she's inconsolable.

Hera's in the stylist's chair, and she's voiceless. Echoes of madness devour her, and she's a husk. She's a husk, tethering upon her seat; not quite there at all.

(Was she ever there at all?)

And she's there, she's half-smiling, and then there's bitterness on her lips, as much as a chuckle's there, and _bitterness, bitterness, oh—_

Her high's gone.

It's lost its hold.

Hera lets a breathless laugh out. Because the bliss's lost, and she's _unfolding_ , she's unfolding, she's _falling_ , and oh, she's so cold.

* * *

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1 Male.**

They lather him in liquid diamonds and quartz, and he hasn't felt so _powerful_ before.

Warmth, hot and dousing, slathers his skin; but it's a beautiful feeling, one that pulses his skin in rubies and peaches. It's not so much painful than it is grand, and it is the grandeur that sinks into his bones. He's being remade: fortified, enforced, enhanced.

Enhanced, and he'll come out of it: _stronger, with ardour: like a conqueror_.

He doesn't question what they'll do, but the stylists tell him anyway. "It'll become armour," they tell him. "It'll solidify, and don't ask questions—you'll see, soon! It's the latest in Capitol fashion! I'm sure you'll love it."

So he doesn't ask. Instead, he relishes in it; it's invigorating, it's comforting, it's liberating. He's getting a massage, special treatment: that type he'd always only heard of in the Academy, from the rich kids that can afford the world and more.

He has it now. And he knows it's a dress-up game; it's made to impress; it's preparation for the deaths. But Chrys can't help but relax.

And it's the same, the way he feels throughout the entire ceremony; and when he's standing in front of the expanse of the Capitol, the chariots burring by the side, the roars of the crowd rousing the atmosphere, the glare of the silver screen poised upon him, Chrys is more than ready.

He tilts his head up at the rest of the world. And he lets a slight smile play upon his face.

He is more than ready.

And he'll show that to them all.

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1 Female.**

Dior pushes her shoulders back and lifts her eyes towards the centre of the Capitol. It's a glare upon her face; it's a silver glint, one that stings. She simply looks forward.

It's armour that she wears. Beautiful alabaster flows down her skin and presses like knives into her skin. It's luxurious; it's unlike any armour that they've seen in tribute parades before.

(But not uncommon. Armour is often the accessory for Careers; that weapon which the Capitol fortifies them in. It's what dazzles and stuns; it's usually the armoured Careers who receive the most fanfare and love. Dior's always found it so painfully ironic; for it was often that those Careers that boasted golden chestplates and lion's heads that ended up with their breaths wrenched or with cavities made of their chests. So destroyed they would be: crusaders made cadavers.)

And now that she is in armour—it's hard not to think about them. Those dead. Their faces: their appearance so pitiful, their potential wasted, their cheeks so gaunt, their mouths so putrid in their ruby-wretched scent, their masks so emptied.

(Mattie. Her face is what stays on Dior's mind. Mattie's silver armour that she wore in the parade; not that beautiful a colour, but it was silver that had sparkled like the night's sky. It was so pretty. She remembers how her heart swelled with pride; that was Mattie, her younger sister, blazing in the tribute's parade. A tribute—and an eventual Victor. It was what she'd forced herself to believe in, then.)

Her mouth constricts, now. The Careers around her wear the same; the Twos have chitons on, wings holstered upon their backs, and they look like angels—so sacrificial, merely waiting for a knife's descent. The Fours have swathes of blue swarming their skin, like blue beetles and they themselves birds; uncaged, unbroken, _free_. She gazes upon the Capitolians; mouths frothing in cheers.

And finally, Dior looks upon the road that the horses clop against: those that span up to the palace that makes the Capitol. And Dior sees what Mattie had seen; two years ago, a tribute environed in the frenzy of the people.

(Did Mattie know that she was going to die? Did she stare into the world underneath her, and imagine herself bolstered upon the Victor's stage? Or was it too much - the noise, the rabid screams, the explosions of parade streams, the magnitude of the silver screens? What did Mattie think - was she just a tribute, or was she Victor?)

Dior doesn't know which would be more painful.

She lets out a breath. The Capitol's the same, she realises: no different from how it's been two years ago. A gleam of armour on her chest; twenty-three tributes, lined up for their deaths, where only one of the best can survive. But only now: she's in Mattie's stead, but she's not dead.

_(Not dead yet.)_

Dior stares at the rest of the Capitol in her armour, and promises herself: she won't be another Career girl that ends up an ironic caricature in other's memories.

She'll win. For Mattie's sake.

(She has to. What else is she here to do— other than that?)


	11. The Restless and The Rebellious - Training.

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1 Male.**

Elkavich's words resound in his mind.

The Capitol. They want a normal game this time. And Chrys doesn't particularly mind. It'll be part of his plan, anyway; he'll be part of the shadows, and he'll wait — he'll fade out from the rest till he pounces upon them. That's how he'll win the Games.

It's his victory plan. It's a story that's been told time and time before, but he figures that the Capitol won't mind a rewind. Especially not after what had happened… last Games.

(And everything after that. It wasn't wrong to say that things became a little bit more than… different, after the 55th Games. Nothing had changed too drastically in One: but the shift ran like adrenaline through air, the ways the trainers' limbs had tightened at any mention of an Academy romance, how the One kids' rancour had withered till it was nonexistent, how a void of emptiness stayed where palaver about the Victor should be.)

(Some changes, of course, were more physical. Careers had to undergo screenings before they were allowed to volunteer; night gatherings were banned; curfew was enforced and established. Peacekeepers roamed the streets at night and day, in sixes and sevens, like a wolf-pack—so much more than the sole one or two that Chrys would occasionally see at night.)

(It would not be wrong to say that things have… _changed…_ after the 55th Games.)

It is with this mind that Chrys seizes the Training Rooms. They had never televised these segments, but he couldn't say that it wasn't what he had expected. It looked just like the facilities he had in the Academy back at One: but more compact, more strong, flourishing far more. Beautifully metallic; twisting briars upon the chamber and seeping into the lustre of the weapon racks. He takes his axe, one lifted with a gleaming metalhead; and he weighs it upon his hands. So well balanced; it's like it was made for him.

"You're Chrys, aren't you?"

It's an angry—gruff—childlike voice that Chrys hears. He turns and then there is Kiernan: the District Two boy. And when Chrys says _boy,_ he truly means boy: the kid's young, can't be older than fourteen, maybe younger, even.

 _What is he even doing here?_ It's a question that he doesn't know whether to ask or chuckle: because the chances of a kid like him getting out alive were close to none. And he's volunteered for it, too: _what's going on in this kid's head?_

(Chrys remembers the Reapings of Two. Of the silhouette of a kid that shouted his name in a pissed-off drawl. Ruffled slick hair, a too-big denim jacket, scuffed shoes. Broken; angry; _tired_. It's his eyes that had struck him, then.)

It's Kiernan's eyes that strike him, now. Dirty; hoary; beaten-down. And Chrys realises he's seen the pair before—far too many times, back in the slums of Coal.

(And then Chrys understands, a little bit more.)

"Yeah, I am," Chrys says, and there would've been humour lacing in his voice before; but now he keeps himself neutral. "And you're Kiernan, right?"

Kiernan appears surprised, for a moment. But then his eyes narrow—weighed down with suspicion; caution. "You know my name."

"'Course," Chrys says, easily. "It would be stupid for me to not know the names of my pack-mates."

Another glint of surprise crosses Kiernan's eyes. "… thank you."

Chrys feels a small smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. It's almost like he's talking to Emilio. He lifts the axe in his hand; Emilio had always been afraid of weapons, despite how much Chrys had encouraged him to _try._

He inclines his head towards Kiernan. "Wanna give it a spin?"

It is surprise that jolts across Kiernan's face again—but it disappears with a scoff. "I can do it myself," he mutters, glancing away from Chrys's blade. "But thank you."

And then Kiernan is gone: off to another corner in the Training Centre.

Chrys watches him go. _District Two boy. Huh. Interesting kid._

It's then when he feels the weight of eyes upon him.

They're all looking at him: the Careers. He lets his axe drop by the rack, and he makes his way towards them all.

It's an uneasiness that he finds amid them all. Some of them shift; some of them avoid his eyes (like Rhodos, the District 4 Male); some of them don't seem there at all (Hera Dalenka, he thinks is her name: that District 2 girl who seems like she floats upon air).

But some of them seize him up; other than Dior there's Althea. Chrys doesn't know what to make of this pack at all.

"What shall we do first?" is said, and he thinks it's by Althea, who tilts her head to the side, just slightly, rolls her neck like she's flexing her muscles, impatient, anxious, ready.

"I think Chrys had already chosen for us," Dior says. That tinge of ice upon her tone is unmistakable; and Chrys forces the wince down. Instead, he focuses his eyes upon Dior; who returns to him in kind.

"The weapons it is, then?" Chrys says. He lets the question linger; even if it's not quite a question than it is a statement of fact. The other Careers don't do much but look at each other. Althea and Rhodos exchange a look. Hera doesn't even seem to be there at all.

Dior's eyes rest upon him, through and through. "Do you want to keep waiting?" she says, too icily. "Or should we go?"

A statement rather than a question. Chrys doesn't say any more; he goes over to the weapons. Picks up his axe, and hammers it straight into the face of the first target dummy.

* * *

**Dior Marini. District One Female.**

Chrys… _challenges her._

He wants to gauge her. He wants to determine _how she is._ She's not surprised; she's incensed. At the fact that anyone would _dare._

It's being played out, now. She's playing into his game, she knows, with every successive axe-throw, with every passing moment that her weapons make their mark. Dior's giving him more, she's letting him in, telling him information, how she wields a blade and a sword, which side she prefers in a fight, just where she'd go for the killing blow.

But she doesn't care.

Dior's showing her strength. Showing her power; her ability; telling him _just what_ she could do. And Chrys would be an idiot not to think that she wouldn't be able to compete. He'd be an idiot not to be intimidated.

(Of course… she's not the best with weapons; with knives; with anything at all. But she pushes down her insecurities: she's authoritative, she's strong, she can do this. Even if her fingers shake upon the blade.)

He looks at her, on occasion, in the moments when he thinks that she doesn't see him. His teeth grit at every hit she gets upon the targets. It makes him more riled up, more _irritated,_ and _angrier._

(It's not hard to infer _why, exactly._ It's old news in the Academy that Chrys's there because of a scholarship. He rides a bike to the Academy. She'd seen the way he looked at the rest of them: jaw tight, fingers gripped, seething at the extent of wealth and privilege that practically drenched the faces of the kids there.)

And she's glad. She's having a physical effect on him—a physical reaction. He's recoiling. He's retaliating. He's on the defensive. And Dior's aim might not be the best: but she knows how people work.

One down. And she knows how to control him now.

(How many more to go?)

Four more in the pack. Dior hadn't quite taken them all in yet; but she's got a rough idea of what they're all like, by now. The District Two girl - Hera Dalenka - has the wrong kinds of drugs in her system, and all the better for Dior. The District Four boy - Rhodos McNamara - is a dog, really. She'd noted the way he'd looked at her: uncertain but hopeful, and he'd already been putting the work into getting into Dior's good side. District Four girl's resolute, cold, and strong, and dread pulls taut in Dior heart. Althea's like Dior, she thinks, and she doesn't like that at all.

And of course. There is a child in the Career pack. Kiernan Alcraiz, the District Two kid, younger brother to the last District 2 girl in the 55th Games. Angry, childlike, mad, he's probably the most volatile of the pack. Dior doesn't know why he's here, or if he's as crazy as his sister, but she can't care less. Even if the angry ones are the hardest to control.

But out of them all, Dior knows this. She is the best-positioned one of the pack. She can keep Chrys under her thumb. Rhodos is already lapping up to her every word. She'll ground Hera down from her heights. She isn't so experienced with kids, but there's an easy way to shut up children.

And Althea. There is Althea, of course. But no pack is complete without a rival. Dior'll figure something out.

(She will, soon. Because she knows this, as she hurls another knife right at the centre of a target: she is in a pack of wolves. And she must rise atop it all.)

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4 Male.**

It's uncomfortable, being in the same room as Dior and Chrys.

It's not exactly _uncomfortable,_ really. But the tension is high between the two: and Rhodos doesn't like being there between them.

(He wants to say something; he wants to relieve the tension, somehow. To make sure that they'll both… be fine, somehow. But not just is it not in his place, but he doesn't know how they'll react. They might explode, and things might get worse, and _no,_ that's not what he'd want to make happen.)

He watches them as they fight. They're not fighting, exactly, but it feels just like that; with every axe throw against the dummy feels like an axe aimed at Dior, and every toss of a throwing knife feels like it was meant for Chrys. With each thud, Rhodos winces.

A cold war's brewing between the two of them _._ And he and the rest of the Careers are there. They've agreed upon weapons, but Rhodos doesn't dare approach that sector. He doesn't want to get between… whatever… is going on between Dior and Chrys.

Instead, he looks away and takes stock of the entire Training Room. The other tributes are scattered across, and it's with a jolt that he realises that they're staring at him. The pair from Three. He doesn't remember their names… was it Daniel? The other girl's looking at him too… he faintly recalls her name, Ryleigh, maybe. Usually, other tributes wouldn't dare look too long or too openly at the Careers; too much and you risk being a target. But they're staring at him, and he's staring at them, and discomfort heats his cheeks up in red.

He turns away. But it's not just they that are looking, though; it's the pair from Six, too, and then those from Eight. Rhodos swallows. There is a conflagration that spreads across the Eight Girl's face: and it isn't sullen. It's… hostile. It pricks against his skin, and he shifts in discomfort. He gazes away from them; not just because their eyes are too much to take, but because Rhodos knows, so precisely, that it's _him_ that's riling them up so much. He's a Career — he's the root cause of them all.

So he refocuses. He'll have to train eventually, and it brings him strolling towards the rack of weapons. He takes one - a spear, and he's mindful of the way Dior and Chrys throw their weapons; the vigour of their madness concentrated upon one point, and he looks away just as quick. Rhodos doesn't try to match their power: he tosses his spear and it hits the mark, close enough, but his eyes always flick back to Chrys and Dior.

They're the alphas, fighting it out. And he doesn't want to get into the midst of it. So Rhodos lets his spear relax, slightly, and throws again. _Training_ is what they'd commanded, and that's what he'll do.

Rhodos watches Chrys and Dior the entire time and makes sure that his throw's never better than theirs.

* * *

 **Dior Marini. District 1 Female**.

She bests Chrys. It is easy. His swears and his power were merely glamour. And he can only glower at her, now, as she tosses her throwing knives back to the side.

He can glower all he wants—it won't matter, in the Games. In the Games: one has to be prepared. A snarky remark won't save him from a pike or a blade or a garrotte.

There's a squeak. Dior's eyes move away from her weapon, and they land upon a child.

They are a vase about to break. Quivering eyes. Choppy blonde hair. Face hidden by shadows and locks. So terrified—that is what all the children are.

But it is not simply fear upon the child's face. They are ragged, yes, but they are surly: it emanates from their gripped hands, their stance. There is a determination in the child's gaze, that Dior can't place.

(It is familiar, for one. Flaxen hair; blue eyes; angelic smile when they smile. Sibling; _sister_. But does Dior want to remember?)

She doesn't recognise the kid: somebody from Eight. Perhaps it is the female tribute: but the female tribute is sixteen and not thirteen. But it is _Eight_ all the same that crests upon the tribute's chest.

It is then when a girl enters the weapons sector. She's sixteen or seventeen, with a cascade of dark hair that's like the wash of sparkling night stars. Weariness drifts in her eyes; but a coagulated black, like a bead, solidifies once she meets Dior's eyes.

That is the female tribute of Eight.

She feels her jaw go gaunt. Oh, Dior remembers her. That girl that raised her finger against the escort; against the rest of the kids; against the Victors; against the camera; against the Capitol.

Her third finger is yet to be cut off. It is merciful, perhaps: the Capitol would not let their tributes be damaged until the Arena. Or perhaps it is a punishment: there is no anaesthesia to stave the girl's pain in the Games.

(Rebellion. Is _she_ why Elkavich said what she said?)

She glares at Dior, now. It is almost funny, for the girl is so much like her. Dark hair; emptiness in her face; anger thundering in her chest. Except that Dior is a Career and she a rebel.

Predator and prey; and Eight Girl is the devil in human form.

Eight Girl takes the child by their hand - leads them away, behind her, like she's acting as a human shield.

And Dior knows the Eight Girl's name: Sadie. But Eight Girl doesn't deserve the dignity of being called by her own name.

"Don't look at my District Partner like that."

Dior raises her eyebrows. Eight Girl's eyes are sharper than glass shards: and her tongue seeks to excoriate her. There is so much dark rage concentrated upon her face, and Dior cannot help but retort.

"Like what?"

Eight Girl scoffs, and her eyes are a glaze of madness. "Like we're meat."

Meat. Is that not what they are? Cows to the abattoir: creatures caught in grimy stockades, dredged from a bowl, brought to the Games. They are unimportant blocks of flesh; they are here to die _._

(They're meat. Meat that decided to rise up. Meat that had murdered her sister. Meat, fucking meat—)

"Don't act like you're any better than that," Dior sneers. Frost crawls up her skin, and she pushes her chin up higher. Dior waits for the Eight Girl's scowl; her spit; her slander.

But Eight Girl doesn't even look at her. She ushers the _child - her District Partner -_ towards a secluded corner of the Training Room, away from sight.

Dior makes her fists relax. She levels her gaze at Eight Girl's back; how nice would it be to have a knife buried between her shoulderblades.

But for now.

She'll deal with the Careers, for now.

Her fights can wait until the Arena.

(But oh: Dior does not so easily forget.)

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2 Male.**

He's already done with all of this.

Kiernan doesn't even want to look around him. Because all he'll see's _eyes,_ not just of the other fucking Careers (Chrys, Chrys, _Chrys,_ that District One boy built like a tractor that stares at him with so much mysticism), but that of the other tributes as well. Those that gaze at him with so much confusion lighted in their eyes; those that expect him to be an outer District tribute, _Reaped_ , but see him mingling with the other Careers. He thinks he's seen a blanch - maybe two, three, can't be surprised if there were more - from all of their faces. Those that see a _kid,_ really, amid this _mess,_ and they don't expect more from him than what they've expected of the other twelves that have lighted up the night sky; dead, dead, _dead_ , never a Victor, slit throat or bashed-in head or stabbed back, they never _live_.

(He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here at all—he should be back at home, he should be back with his mom, he shouldn't be in the midst of a Training Room that he'd only imagine in his dreams whenever he thought of Maeve, he shouldn't be _here._ )

But he is. He is and he's in with the Careers (if they haven't abandoned him already, because really, who would take in a child into the middle of a hunting pack?) - and he has to do what they're doing, too: has to send knives thudding against a target like Chrys and Dior, has to at least follow along with the much less enthused Rhodos, who's talking with Althea too as they throw their spears. If he doesn't wanna seem like an outsider, _already,_ like Hera, who's practically a straggler in the pack.

Hera, who's staring at the Training Room in a groggy confusion, staggering towards trainers and then bumping into other tributes. Even as they scatter about. She looks distressed, like she hasn't quite figured out that she's a Career and the rest are red meat that she's gonna butcher.

(And he's just a kid, really, one that nobody has any expectations for, one that's gonna die in the Bloodbath, one that's gonna get his throat slit and one that'll end up as just another number in placements; because the Capitol's sent him towards his death, and so that's what'll happen, because _defiance_ , who's ever heard of that?)

Defiance. Defiance. _Defiance_ is what's brought him here. Defiance, because his sister decided that kissing that girl from One was better than fighting in the Games. Because his sister decided that getting to live her fantastical world inside her head was worth more than his life itself. Because she was so goddamned selfish that she decided to end everything for the both of them; for him and mom, for…

Defiance. Fucking _defiance._

Kiernan grabs a sword from the rack. He's never used the thing before—but a stick of metal doesn't seem to hard to wield. It's unbalanced in his hand; veers off to a side, and it's heavy, lifting the thing. But their eyes are upon him _(he doesn't know who, but there's twenty-four pairs in the room and then some more, and there are eyes and that's what matters at all),_ and he strolls towards one of the dummies by the side. Kiernan lifts his blade; and slams the metal tip against the plastic chest _(not a dummy, a puppet, really, and if he closes his eyes and really imagines, it could be a person's, a fleshy chest, exploding in claret, red piercing the room from what he's done, if he thinks, he tries_ ).

He hits. He hits till that thing's demolished. He hits till that thing's destroyed; he hits till that plastic flesh's gooey and wet and plaster and nothing more than broken under him. He heaves and if he looks he can see scattered limbs, broken heads, destroyed flesh.

If he looks, he can see red.

They're staring at him now. He knows that, now. All of their eyes: hoisted upon him. Not just the tributes but the Careers, too. Chrys has put his axe down. Dior hasn't looked away from the targets; but her throw arm drops, slightly. Althea's turned towards him, head cocked, surveying him. Rhodos falters, and looks, uncertain, his feet shifting under him like they're on water.

Kiernan puts his blade down. He inhales; he exhales. Wreckage is what decimates the Training Room. Eyes are what smoulders him. Thoughts are what smothers his mind.

(Defiance's what rules the streets of Two. Defiance is what explodes the people's hearts. Defiance is the 55th Games. Defiance is Maeve.)

Defiance is what kills him.

Defiance is what will kill him. And that is what Kiernan sees, as he surveys the room and the room surveys him.

(There is defiance, that pervades every corner. It dangles in the eyes of the outer Districts; in Eight Girl's eyes, in the Sixes; in the Threes. He watches: and there will be defiance, in the 56th Games.)

It will be his end.

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4 Female.**

It's quieter, in the Training Room, after Kiernan lets out his outburst.

Althea couldn't care less about the child. If anything, he's a straightforward kill— twelve, shouldn't be really any different from the Bloodbaths—and he'll be gone, anyway, quicker than she'll know it. She doesn't know why he's taken up that particular spot in Two, and she doesn't particularly care, either—all Kiernan's done is he's stolen the spot of competent competition, and that's one less real Career which Althea'll have to deal with.

The Careers. They have quite the group this year. Everybody's felt the tension between Chrys and Dior. It doesn't matter to her—not quite, at all. Althea'll be wary of them; they will die, anyway, eventually: they're nothing but stepping stones to her victory.

All she needs is to be careful; she'll watch them; she'll keep track of them all. Althea'll be there when the Careers disintegrate, and she'll ensure she's the one that comes out on top. All she has to do is to look: to search; to pry into their weaknesses.

(It won't be hard. She'll just have to pull her lips in a facsimile; so many people slip when she smiles. She'll observe, of course: and then she'll disappear. Wide-eyed, pouty-lipped, confused-like. _Weak, so fucking weak,_ shouldn't be fucking hard at all, the cameras already think her it and her District doesn't need any more convincing, her parents will buy her act in a second, because she's a pathetic girl, useless, _impotent_ , she'll fucking die in the Games, won't she, just a little goddamned girl—)

She finds herself next to Rhodos in the Training Room. She's slamming the halberd into the centre-target; and it's a smash that crashes through the illusory sheen of the bullseye, that falters, for a moment, before solidifying again. Althea grabs another and continues; there aren't _enough,_ spears and halberds and axes and knives, she throws and decimates and breaks the hologram's screen till her teeth's gritted and she's halfway towards screaming.

Rhodos can't even concentrate anymore because of her; his eyes wander to her blows, and even then she does not stop. _Psh, pathetic, that hit's offside, you won't kill him with that strike, he'll have his knife slammed into your throat by now, seconds you're wasting, it's pitiful, really, you're gonna be displayed at 20th on-screen, even Talon's record you can't beat, sully the Ivory name some more, will you, won't you—_

 _"_ … Althea?"

Her eyes snap towards the person who spat her name. Rhodos flinches. It's only then when she realises that she's seething, that her nails are crushing her own skin, that she's turned the blade in her hand towards her District Partner.

She lowers her blade. "Sorry," she apologises, tops up a smile. "You scared me there, Rhodos. Wasn't looking."

Althea turns her eyes back towards her target. She readies her knife.

"Wait—"

Impatience takes her now. Turning back to Rhodos, she lets out a breath; but keeps the smile on her face, the tone of her words neutral. "What is it?"

"You don't seem…"

He struggles. Althea watches. It's like he's caught between two things: wanting to speak, but not wanting to offend her. Usually, it doesn't matter to Althea at all: she'd often just stare, and wait until the perpetrator would either leave or give up on her.

(But she thinks back to Rhodos, upon the train: t _hey're not the best, mine aren't either_ , and it's something a little more different that twinges her. Althea doesn't feel, not usually; but it isn't usual that she hears those words at all.)

"I'm fine," she says between her teeth, "It's just training. Got intense. That's all. You know those times; I'm sure you've felt the same in training. The thrill. The bloodsong."

Rhodos gazes away. "Yeah," he says. "Felt the same."

His tone twinges Althea. It's light, still, like he's trying to be agreeable, but she detects emptiness mingled in there, too. It's quiet; dispassionate. Not quite there at all.

"Don't you like it?" she says. Curiosity swirls in her chest, as she observes Rhodos' expression.

It takes a few moments until Rhodos answers. "It's not my passion," he says, and there's wistfulness infused in there, too. But he's already moving on before Althea can ask him to elaborate.

"But you're a beast with a blade," he says, a light smile tilting his lips, and the transition's so immediate that Althea wonders if she'd seen what she'd seen in Rhodos at all.

Passion. Training is Althea's passion. It's what invigorates her; it's what fuels her. Every day would bring a fault, a fix, a thing to improve: _empower her throw-arm, let the base-side cut bone, trying her hand at natural combat._ Every day she'd be _better,_ and that's how she takes the disapproving glances she gets from her mother and father back at home; that's how she strolls through her District ignoring the jeers of the people; that's how she lives with herself.

"You're in love, aren't you?" he teases. And Althea, though she knows he means the game, feels a half-smile work up her lips. She thinks about Kani; the 49th Victor of the Games, wreathed in forest pines and with lips that taste of sea-breeze; she thinks about their lives, alone, together, _free, finally,_ away from their District's prying eyes and her parents' shaking heads; she thinks about their home waiting for them in the Victor's Village.

_You're not wrong there, Rhodos._

"Looking to be the best?" Rhodos continues, the edge of a tease upon his voice.

Althea's lips quirk. "Not quite."

She turns back towards the target; she lifts her knife. It's one fiery thud against the target; and the hologram, already unsteady from its flickering, shatters completely. She's sure she hears gasps from the Gamemakers' viewing consoles. It doesn't matter—they have more than enough money to make up the cost of the entire Training Room and more.

Instead, she tilts her head towards Rhodos. "I'm showing them what I can do."

Rhodos's eyes still riveted upon the decimated hologram. But his eyes lift towards hers, for a brief moment.

It's then when the entire Training Room _shakes._ Althea's head whips towards the source of sound. A flurry of white uniforms— _Peacekeepers,_ she realises, upon the far end of the Training Room, near the exit. And there's a girl thrashing in the midst of them all.

There's a scream. But it's in fury than in pain. It's Eight Girl, being manhandled—they've got her arms twisted behind her back, they're pushing her back against the wall. She's bleeding from the head; her slick black hair's matted with wet.

 _Tributes aren't meant to be attacked._ But that's what Althea's seeing: now. She stares, as Eight Girl screams and scowls; and in the chaos Althea can almost make out her words. " _Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I'll show you all!"_

It's in one fluid moment: one that Althea herself almost doesn't see. Eight Girl slams her head against the Peacekeeper's head and shakes herself out of their grip. And then her fingers are encircling their throat, and she's slamming them against the wall, she's _throttling_ them. _Somebody should stop her_ , Althea thinks, dimly, but nobody makes a move.

It's a tableaux of a debacle that they stare at: not even the two other Peacekeepers move. Finally, after what is eternity, the other Peacekeepers finally grip her shoulders and wrestle Eight Girl away from the chokehold. They're smashing their batons into her thighs, into her chest ( _aren't tributes supposed to be protected),_ but Eight Girl grins, as if triumphant, still, and spits at the choking Peacekeeper, still gagging for their breath.

It's under control. It's _under control,_ she tells herself, and Althea sees all the Careers staring. Their eyes, as if pivoting upon gravity, turn back to one another. It's an exchange of looks: _fear-awe-surprise-pain-anger—_

And Althea realises, then, with a sick sack in her throat, as she gazes upon Eight Girl, as she gazes upon the Peacekeepers, as she gazes upon the chaos made of the Training Room. It's so clear, now, what she sees. _Rebellion_.

_This must be what Elkavich meant._

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2 Female.**

It is… dizzying, the place.

And it is not because of what the Peacekeepers have done. Their beatings… have shaken the puffy grounds. After they have dragged a girl away somewhere-Hera-doesn't-know-where.

But it is the cold that shambles in her veins. Ice rattles upon her skin. Her teeth's chittering and her mouth's barely clamped enough to keep it all under control.

(Hera's felt like this before, of course. It's not the first time she's gotten high; it's not the first time she's _crashed._ But… has she gotten so high before? Has she crashed so hard before?)

Sober. She's sober. A day sober—but she's sober. She's sober, and that's what she needs for her parents…. for the Capitol… for the Games.

(She's cold-turkey. Cold-turkey…)

Hera's messed up all the first impressions _(in the places that matter, what would her parents say, getting high in the chariot rides, they'll see her wobbly grin and her twitchy eyes, they aren't blind—)_

She had a crisis in the stylist's chamber _(breaking apart, what do they think about her, the so-called Career, they've seen her and they've laughed, how'll she salvage this now—)_

It's okay. It's _okay_. Damage control. She'll do that. She's done that before, in the Academy. Getting too high with Thyia and her friends; she knows the way it goes. There is a reason why she's kept her spot in the Academy. And it's okay. She'll do that now.

Hera will be okay in the Games. That is a promise she makes to herself.

(But she is cold. She is always so cold. In the Games it will be colder; what were the Arena last Games? She doesn't remember the specifics: but the ending was cold.)

They are dissipating, the people. Most of the Outer District tributes have disappeared. A girl with "Four" on her chest leaves, her spear clattering back on the racks. A boy with "One" keeps up talk with the Boy Named K… Kiernan, her District Partner. The One Girl, too, is gone.

All of the Careers have disappeared. And Hera feels like she should go, too— she'll follow the crowd.

But there's still one of them left with her, here.

She sees Rhodos McNamara. He's still mingling near the herbs sector. Close to the Threes… and Sixes. She's not quite sure why he's near them. But he seems a little wide-eyed… and wary.

None of them seems to notice him. Or her. For the matter. Hera's hidden; she's behind a column, one her back's resting against.

They are speaking to each other. She cranes her ear.

Cracks of conversation are what she hears.

"… you sure…"

"… I trust them…"

"… do you…"

"… of course…"

"… wouldn't be here if we didn't…"

"… will save…"

Hera's brow furrows. What are they talking about?

Her eyes meet Rhodos's. He seems just as confused, too.

It's then when one the Threes' eyes snap up. Hera stills; fuck, _shit—_ but it's Rhodos's eyes that they meet.

Thank Panem.

Hera slips out of her hiding spot, as the Threes and Sixes stare at Rhodos. She strolls out of the Training Centre. Her heart's hammering in her chest.

But _why?_

It isn't as if she's heard something incriminating. Games plans. That's all the Threes and Sixes were discussing.

That's all there is. That's _all._

Right?

Right.

This will be a normal Games. It's what it must be. It's what it'll be.

After all: rebellion has no place in Panem.


	12. The Hyenas and The Demons - Interviews.

**Dior Marini. District One.**

Dior faces the stage and the Capitol and the people. There is one thing she knows. She is prepared for this.

_(Not prepared, as if she had practised her lines upon the stage. Nor prepared, as if she knows what she will say. But she is prepared: she is a Career. She is prepared: she has better odds than anyone. Ones do not need to shine themselves; not quite. They have the coruscating stars of their District behind them. Dior merely has to flash her eyes, mirror her District's ardour back at the crowd, and she'll ignite the embers which had long stewed in many a Capitolian's hearts.)_

That thirst for murder: One and Two and Four are the vessels. And she can deliver.

They introduce her. _Dior Marini,_ they say, and her name is sugared powder on their lips. It's the same, as the year before _(Madison Saros),_ and the year before that; it is like that which they showcase the predators.

(Sweet, guileless, predators. They love the same archetype; that District One pomp and poise; their fanciful faces and their quixotic pride. That is what she will let them ascribe. There is no reason to let them think otherwise.)

She is seated upon the grandiose stage. Dior squares her back and lets her gaze rest upon the audience. Cool and unyielding: that is what she knows she projects. Their eyes are riveted upon her. As if she is an enigma, and they want to pry her alive.

(But Dior is made of obsidian. She had not broken to her family. She will not break to a crowd.)

Beside her, Caesar continues to crow. "We're _so_ glad to have District One with us today," he says, as if the Games were not annual, as if he had not said the same: year-after-year, to the same girls that marched with knives into slaughterhouses.

"You in particular, Dior Marini." He licks his lips. " _Marini_. I think that last name is familiar." He turns to the Capitol, then: and it is just like that: their eyes snap, and that sea of attention that Dior commands is gone. As if stirred by magnets, the crowd draws to _him._

"Do our audience members need a reminder?"

An explosion of sound cracks, like thunder, through the Capitol crowd. Dior looks on: and keeps that aloofness strewn over her face. But there is flecks of snow that creeps in her veins. It snakes over her bones and wraps them in a grasp.

"Presenting: the District One tribute of our 53rd Games. Mattie Marini: you may remember her!"

He is loud, and his hands throw up, and there is indelible _glee_ that seats in his features. Flickerman turns onto the screen; and gestures a casual hand, an easy command to the blank screen, the emblem of Panem emblazoned upon the darkness.

"And this, my friends, is the moment that we all remember her by."

It flashes into colour; viridescent, sick-green, spots of black-red spattering the screen. Slowly, it phrases in: shaky, but steadying. The 53rd Games comes into focus; with its lush forestry and shrieking birds and freshwater wilderness. But there is always the quiver of the screen; as the Arena itself is drunken. Vertiginous forest glades: that house of the Erl-King can never be _stable._

But it is not any of that which takes Dior. She rewound those Games too many times to count; she is too familiar with the Arena. Dior knows every nook and cranny; the gleaming spiles that mill upon the tree trunks; the satyr's treasures hidden amid the leaves; the jabberjays with their eyes gouged out and the robins with their hearts vivisected and the cuckoos that rest upon trees; oh, Dior knows the home of the Erl-King, levelled upon stumps of wood, the only place where the Arena is _steady._ She knows how he comes out and stalks and steals the children into his night.

Those Games that she should have been in. She had broken all of it, down and apart. Wracked every scenario in her head: _would I have lived this, I'll have survived that, I would've kill him, those slabs of meat would be dead, there'd be no chance they could retaliate—_

(And every conclusion she comes to is the same.)

No: the Arena does not bother her, anymore. She knows it too well for it to. What seizes a beat in Dior's throat is the scene. A boy and a girl; leaping through the trees, their hands rustling the leaves, their weapons in their hands. A javelin and a garrotte.

Groans; whoops; cheers through the audience. Flickerman makes a show of waving his hands; he gets up, points towards the screen, _extravagant_. "If we remember— our District Eights had made a formidable hunting team together. They had felled the boy from Seven; that girl from Eleven—picking them off, one after another. And now: they've turned their eyes upon a new target."

And the screen goes to Mattie. _Mattie._ Black locks fraying all over the place and her eyes so damned frantic _(and her face, so small, button nose and small eyes, a child's, not quite fully grown),_ and she's running, clatters of steps down the glades, but immortalised upon the camera, she's _alive_.

It's a little harder to breathe, then.

Sharp hoots and laughs pierce through the glades. "There's no running!" and it's like a _monkey's,_ so heinous and so frantic in their laughter, their _power, they know._ Mattie runs, as the screeches of glee echo behind her: _"You think you're gonna last, kid? You're not even a Career! You're the last one left!"_

Dior's throat stays in her heart. The Eights, they're _gaining_ upon her, they're so close. Minutes draw onto seconds, and even though Dior knows how it ends, she still stares _(as if, if she concentrated hard enough, her gaze would change what happened, as if, if she tried hard enough, thought hard enough, closed her eyes and willed hard enough, she'll be the one on the cameras, and not—)._

That shake of the Arena makes Mattie fall. And the Eights shriek in joy. They pounce like wolves; and they drag her sister apart.

It is a drawn-out struggle. Mattie fights: thrashes, screams, yells, but it isn't enough. It's never enough.

Minutes drag into hours. Drags until the Eight Boy's tired of playing with _her sister_ and wrings the circle of silver round her neck.

Dior makes herself look.

(It is longer than she had remembered. And the gags of her sister, as the ruby pieces of blood leak from her skin, echo throughout the stage.)

"Mattie Marini, everybody!" Flickerman says, finally, after the display turns off; and it is no less jovial than it was before - as if he were announcing a celebration, or a feast, or the leave of a guest. And the Capitol scream for Mattie: as if they were screaming for a Victor.

But all Dior stares at is Mattie's resting ground. Her throat _hurts,_ and there's something sick inside her mouth, and her stomach's twisting like she's been knifed. Her shoulders are cast back, like they're framed so by iron.

(She is made of obsidian, still, to the crowd. But she is glass inside; she is broken; she is in no more than shards.)

Dior Marini is not an enigma. She is pieces and shards; she had long broken apart. She has her shoulders thrown back, her head tilted up, her eyes gazing down, and that is because how she had been devastated by Mattie's death. She is _tired._ She is a _shell._

But she hears their relentless laughs. their heckles, their roars. _Get the Eights_ , they chant. _Get the Eights. Revenge; justice; death. Bring it to us upon a silver chalice._

(It's a classic: the quest for revenge.)

It is what Dior needs. She listens to the cries of the Capitol; to the chants. She hears Mattie's gags, choking on her own blood. And that glass heart melts; and fortifies, into something else.

They will _go._ They will _die. Eight and Seven and Eleven and Six and Five_ and all of them. _She will kill them_.

(And the Eights; oh, the Eights especially. Eight Girl—that slab of _meat_ that refused to be called so by name—rests in her head. That spark of darkness in her eyes, hyenalike, just like the girl that stabbed at her sister with a pike and became the Victor of all of it—)

(The Victor. The winner of the 53rd Games; a hyena, a flesh-slab that rose too far, that fucking freak of a thing, relishing in her _win—)_

It is then, when Dior decides: she must triumph.

And all else will die to meet her cause for it. Nothing less; nothing more.

(And it is, as it always is, for Mattie.)

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District Four.**

She is here for the sponsors. That is all. That is what Althea reminds herself as she steps upon the stage, her sapphire-wrought dress swishing by her legs, making a sea out of their waves; from their sonorous songs.

The Capitol is saturnine in their glory. In their ceremonies. In their bedazzlement and their pompous peacocking. Their ruffed up collars had always made them look like glorified birds. And of course—their colours and their palettes are different. But it's still so boring to her: it's the same old monotone that she'd seen back at home. They're just a bombastic District Four victory party, and she'd know. She'd been to a few of those.

_(For a while. Till Talon died and there were no more streak victories to show.)_

Althea lets a smile wrangle her lips. That is what she'll use to dazzle the Capitol; and as the floodlight ploughs unto her, as the audience's rioting screams steal her ears, as Caesar Flickerman extends his arms wide in a welcome—Althea knows she's done it right.

She strolls towards the sofa that they have out for her; she sits in the middle. Althea turns her gaze onto Flickerman, clasps her fingers together, pretends to look attentive.

He gasps, reels, for a moment. It's positively theatrical. The audience goes quiet with him; and it's only after long that he exudes a sigh, a breath. "Well, would you look at that."

Althea obliges. She stands, and twirls in her dress, and she knows how she looks upon the cameras: a nymph, a sea's child, a succubi. The cheers drown her.

(It sickens her, how they sample her. Names they inscribe; creatures, minnows, mice, none of them violent. But Althea is the goddess of the sea; there is no god by her. She is not a nymph nor succubi; she is murderous, she has a knife. They will see that soon: she will make them. But not now. Not for now.)

Flickerman waves her over after the cheers reach their peak. Althea reseats herself again.

"I think I can speak for the audience when I say that that was positively delightful," he tells her, scoots forward in his chair like he wants to get closer to her. "What do you all say?"

They yell again; a cheer, a scream, a roar, all of it _crescendos_. Their voices roll over her skin like the crest of a wave. If it were a wave, she would submerge herself in it; she'd let herself go.

But she has necklaces of pearls and all of them fake and hollow—it is not the sea's blessing that wreathes her. She is acting for the artificial.

"The audience has spoken!" Flickerman says. More rapture; more cheers; more fawning; more applause. "And taking the stage: Althea Ivory, everyone!"

Flickerman's eyes sweep across the audience, and then, quietude swamps them all. He turns to her, then.

"Would you start us off with a fun fact about home?"

It's kind of ridiculous, she thinks: this is the Hunger Games, not some trivia party. But the eyes of the audience prick her; not just the audience, but the _sponsors,_ the people with riches, the dozens in the masses that can help her win.

"Well… District Four is _delightful_ ," Althea says, easily, and curls her lips on that same word that Flickerman's utilised. "You should see our sky. It's bluer than the most aquatic textiles you have in the Capitol. Our sea, obviously, most often gets the spotlight: but I'd like to highlight our forests. You don't see much mention of the forests—but it's one of the most beautiful parts of Four."

(She keeps it vague; keeps it down; keeps it cliche. Boasting about Four won't rouse anything new in the Capitol citizen's minds; particularly not if they've only known platinum palaces and liquid gold. They've heard the same old.)

A sheet of cheers come forth, anyway.

"And I'm sure there's more reason as to why you love it so much," Flickerman continues, above the murmurs of the audience. "The forests, I mean. There's been… rumours, I've heard, from several of our _reputable_ sources."

A pause. Flickerman turns to the audience with an endearing smile: one that would seem so for the cameras; that would be seen so nationally. But to Althea, he glints, teeth first, in a tusk's white, and the words gnash out, in a predator's breath— "Kani Fairchild."

_No._

Not Kani. Not _now_. Her teeth grit; her fists clench. She wants to strangle Flickerman right there and then. _They didn't have to—fuck, they didn't have to…_

Questions. They're trying to dig into her heart; they're trying to pry her _open;_ they're trying to lay her bare for the Capitol to devour. They want to rip apart her _armour;_ they want to dress her down. _Althea Ivory_ , self in self, they want her _raw_.

(These vultures; they want to take it all.)

"None of your business, Caesar," she says, keeps her smile intact, but it's twitching with frothiness that she can't keep down. An ember's erupting in her chest, and she just wants to—

Althea gazes into the crowd. She reminds herself of _the audience,_ no, _the sponsors_.

All a show.

( _It doesn't mean anything, back at home.)_

All a farce.

( _She'll be ready, when she returns, she'll do it with Kani, the Capitol doesn't matter to them.)_

All to win.

_(All to get back to home.)_

And she strains a smile up. And the plastic explosion of sound douses her ears; they swallow her fully. Althea raises her head and lets herself act like the doll the Capitol want her to act.

But the burning pit in her chest doesn't stop moulding.

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District Two.**

Blinding. It's so blinding.

Starlight mangles his vision. Then: rapturous roars, clucks of kites, caws of ravens, screeches of sirens. He is _overwhelmed_. He is—

(So much like Scott, that District 5 boy, last Games. His District had snickered when they'd seen him on-camera: stick-frozen like he had a pick in him already. Panem was there to witness that humiliation; he'd watched him go through the Capitol's denigration; all of Two had harassed that boy's corpse and laughed when he passed.)

(And it'll be the same, for him, because he's made the entirety of Two aghast when he'd crashed the Reapings. By _volunteering_. And when he dies they'll heckle and they'll chorus and they'll laugh and he will be that boy from Five, jostling in a rickety hearse, ghost-eyed and broken inside, he will be a _shame_ and he'll be _blamed,_ he will be six feet under next to his shell-dead mother, and that phantom of her will decorate her world with his sister's imagination, living in the best of her brain's amalgamations.)

He closes his eyes; he steadies himself. But his feet feel like they're upon the wreckage of planks, hiking with the sea's waves, and he's _nauseous,_ he's uneven. He's Scott, so close to _falling,_ to dying, _petrified_ , gouged by the gaggle of gorgons that glug at any District rat's panicked dance.

But Kiernan's not District. Kiernan is a Career. He is a Career and he is not some _slaughterhouse kid,_ he is not some boy that would die in the _Bloodbath,_ he is not a _child,_ he is _old,_ he knows how the _world works,_ he isn't, he's not, he's not—

"Our preteen volunteer!" Flickerman crows. "Let's make him feel welcome, everybody. Round of applause, all!"

Raucous; rowdy; rancid. That is the Capitol.

Needles prod against his skin. Frostbite swallows his toes. Panic races up his heart. Kiernan Alcraiz, twelve years old, stares at the rest of the world that wants to devour him completely and experiences fucking _stage-fright._

"Kiernan. Kiernan. Come here, won't you?"

A tut. A note of sympathy. A wretched expectation. It's so much like he's beckoning a child.

It presses down, squashes his heart like a hydraulic metal press. But Kiernan goes anyway.

(Because anything— _anything_ is better than looking at those gargoyles.)

Flickerman eyes him immediately once Kiernan gets onto his seat. "Alcraiz," he says, gestures at the gargoyles at the seats, "We're familiar with the name."

 _Oh, of course you are,_ he wants to scoff out. _None of you would let me forget._

"So, it's obvious—your sister's infamous," Flickerman says, his arm sidling on the armrest, like he's trying to get closer to Kiernan, like he's trying to get more comfortable. The rest of the audience stare on, and Kiernan's stomach is queasy. They're hungry for what'll happen next, for Casear's words, for his answer, their tongues darting in their cheeks, like snakes waiting for the nibble of bait _._

"I think you're best equipped to tell us, as the sole surviving Alcraiz," Flickerman says, gaze roaming the audience now, and Kiernan's heart grips. _(Offhand. So offhand. They didn't even bother to give Maeve's name.)_

"Would you tell us, then? Will we be seeing antics like that?"

 _Antics._ A bubble inflates in Kiernan's throat, and he wants to _choke it out,_ he wants to let the laugh resound. Because the Capitol was right on that. _Antics_ were what Maeve had engaged in in the Games. They were antics.

Flickerman's eyes rest on Kiernan's for far too long. Then, he lets out a quick laugh. "An appropriate reaction! It seems like our volunteer here doesn't really remember, either! Do our audience need a reminder?"

There are roars and yells and stomps. A dozen cuckoos rip out their throats in song. A hundred bison stamp their screeches. A chorus of gargoyles cackle.

It's a debacle that they show. Course it starts with the girl from One. ( _He knows that her name is Madison, but he can't bring himself to give a shit, he can't, he doesn't, girl from One will always fit better— girl who corrupted his sister and girl that was too much a fucking idiot to live and girl who killed herself when she could've won)._

And Maeve.

_(It is always Maeve that they focus on. There is something mythical about his sister. A gravity that draws the cameras to her; perhaps it is her saint-like hair or her sea-made eyes. Perhaps it is the madness that drives through her expression: manic, unfettered, untenable, untameable. A spark spins through her body and stars frizz from all about her. Perhaps they focus on her because she is so wild; because it is only with the frame of the lens that they could contain her. They would not be able to, otherwise.)_

And what flicks on is a scene that has replayed a dozen times before. That smash of two lips; matted in the red light of sirens. Kissing. _Razing._ Ravaging.

And the Capitol's ecstatic. Yells and cries and cheers. That scene flicks, but what's shown is just the same, just another angle and clearer. And he sits, and watches it all.

(It's uncomfortable. It's something so _personal,_ so… private. Something that's between the two of them; even he can see that. It's like he's intruding. The Capitol's voyeuristic, he knows, and his sister's _stupid_ for doing all that on camera, she'd consented to it being shown, really. But still it shouldn't be shown like _that._ )

So red. So red it's _unreal._ Bodies; limbs; for them to feed upon. Flesh; skin; breath—and all of it the Capitol harvests.

(Voyeurs. Voyeurs that leech off schadenfreude, they all are—)

The scene shifts. Kiernan recognises the round-tribute campfire, the smiles, the goodbyes. And at the end there's the flash of Maeve: her spine poking out of her back, a pearl, shining in the redolent moonlight, and his breath catches, it's beautiful, it's ugly, why is it so damn romanticised—

Kiernan wants to throw up. He wants to leave, he's _done_ , he's _finished_ with the interview. He needs to go.

He forces himself to breathe. _Inhale, exhale, you're okay._ They were _antics,_ that was all— _screaming, screaming, screaming as she died._ They were antics— _fighting to survive, all of them, for a way outside._ They were antics— _trying to live, they were trying to live, that's all there is, was, to it._

But none of them see him.

"So? What did you think of that?" Flickerman asks, and the audience is eager. They crow; they lurch forwards, like vultures, waiting, watching, _needing—_

"I think," he says, throat tight, "She deserved a better montage."

(And Kiernan goes, as the Capitol laughs because he can't stand it anymore, but they still don't _understand_ , for they are gargoyles, and he is a child, and they prey upon him; in the darkness of the night.)


	13. The Eugenicist and The Basilisk - Interlude.

They come into his laboratory. It is the fifth time, and like all the times before—it is different again.

First he was given pathetic scientists; those that toed the line, showed up his authority—the only breed the Capitol would provide in the nascence of his experiment. Next there were naive Peacekeepers: his guardsmen, inexperienced, inept—told to protect _him_. Third was a harem of escorts, that served him fruits and a spectacle as he viewed the One Reapings.

Fourth: a cavalcade. Peacekeepers that had murdered at least a man at his command; governors that bowed their heads once they heard that _Levine Saros_ was in town. Escorts—shapes and curves like porcelain marble that his fingers crawled across; that he unwrapped to find cowflesh—that made all his dreams proliferate.

And now there are troops. There are men. They stand and gaze. They are armoured; he knows that they have M6 Carbines slung behind their backs. Oh, he knows.

He knows what they are here for.

He turns towards the soldiers present, first. Scoffs. "What have I told you all? I am not to be held liable for what my tribute does in the Arena."

There is one of them which steps out amid the crowd—the leader? He is a man with a perpetual sort of disdain in his expression, one which must've caught upon his face and resided like lice. Tiny-eyed, pale-faced, obnoxious; he wears a repulsive face. He is the definition of a criminal, in terms of eugenics.

"You are," is the two words that leave his lips. It is irritatingly high-pitched, like the squeak of a breathless rat.

Levine turns away from him, then; that pathetic man did not deserve his gaze. "You cannot. Have you heard of mentors being executed because their tributes have died in the Arena? _Capitol Scientists_ , even. That is ludicrous—"

"It is ludicrous."

"—thank you. It is ridiculous. And that is why we are not having this conversation anymore." He throws his files on the laboratory table ahead of him; keeping his back to the pathetic people behind him. "Now leave."

"That is not the reason why we are here."

What else could it be? It is another snort through his noise; near-bellicose. "What is it, then?"

And then a voice: cold, insipid, thorough—enters his skin.

"Hello, Levine Saros."

Levine does not need to look to know. He's heard the same voice upon mandatory viewings; upon the Master of Ceremonies' stages; upon victory tours.

His mouth goes rigid. "Snow."

He can imagine Snow's smile; too large, unnatural. Red baubles is what it is reminiscent of.

(Was that characteristic of a criminal or a leader?)

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Levine. I've heard and seen much of your work around the Capitol."

He smothers his sardonicism down. No; certainly not _now._ Not with the President.

"Of course you have."

Snow tilts is head. It's like a snake's; no, not a snake's, snakes are far kinder than that. It is a basilisk's: hissing, rent back, _torturous_.

"Saros," he says, and it is as if those words are coal upon his tongue. "You made her take your last name, too, haven't you, Doctor Levine?"

He extricates his words from his grimace. One which he twists into a grin, for he cannot be fearful. He cannot be resentful. He cannot be _anything_.

"I have," he says, plainly, for it is fact; Snow cannot say anything contrary to that.

(Besides. Snow appreciates audacity. Truth. And not dishonesty. What could Levine say: _I have, and what to that?_ )

_(He would. Oh, he would. In another world, where the roles are reversed: where he is Snow and Snow is Levine. But it is not, and he can only stew.)_

"Branding," Snow says. "Understandable. But you are associated. Do you understand what that means?"

Oh, Levine knows well enough. He knows it when others watch him: upon the streets of One, before the riots had begun. He was revered, respected. _The Capitol's Scientist_ , they had said, in whispers, and he had relished in that name; even if he were born in One. He held the Capitol's prestige; he was _them_.

But now he is nothing more than a rat, a dirty one, a mutt, a thing, a creature that is nothing. They stare at him upon the streets; disgust shoved like dirt in their faces. Stupid laughs entwine their lips. Some ignore him. Some jeer. Some glower. But what is so clear is this—

He is their pariah for the price of their _defiance_.

It constricts him. It leaves an ugly scowl marring his face. He is not guilty of how his _tribute_ had acted. He is not _his experiment._

(Madison _Saros_. He had planned every variable—she was supposed to fight, to live, to survive. She was his perfect killing machine. He had perfected her. But she was defective. He could not have planned that. It was some defect in her brain, yes, that was it, not any fault of his—)

"I want you to remember this, Doctor Levine," Snow murmurs, and his chill-cold voice pinpricks Levine's throat. "You are our representative. You wear the face of the Capitol with you."

A tilt of a head. "But you have created a tribute that defies," and then Levine's blood is ice. "You directly undermine our authority. Do you understand what this means?"

"It is not my problem that the experiment was _defective,_ " Levine sneers, letting his lips curl upon the words. "My experiment was _successful._ In all aspects but one. And you expect to _punish_ me for it? Have you heard of what a hypothesis is? This was mine," he snarls, and wrings his hands, turns his head back. "And that is all to it."

A drop.

"Maybe that is so, to you. But it is not so— to the rest of the Capitol. That little 'defect' had littered riots across Panem. It had created rebellion. Do you expect there not to be a price for your hypothesises, Doctor Levine?"

"My hypothesis—" his jaw constricts, locks, hard. "—my hypothesis is _practice_. Have you tried an experiment without trial and error, hmm?"

"When your 'error' erupts chaos through Panem, you are liable."

His teeth clench. It is ugly, the insides of his mouth; it is putrid. Acrid, artificial, stains his lips.

"Do not think that you are special, Doctor Levine. Just because you are accorded favourable status. We've had escorts; scientists; Gamemakers, even, executed."

And Snow's red, criminal lips lift. "And you, Levine, are not a Victor. You are an experiment. Our experiment. Do you understand?"

He is rigid. He is cold. He is—

"Madison Saros. Your model Career gone haywire," Snow murmurs, and his hand snakes up Levine's arm. Coldness shanks him.

"Did you imagine that there would be no _consequences,_ Levine?"

(And in that moment— he is Madison Saros. Ugly, neglected; dressed in cloths and rags upon the street-grime. Forgotten; a pariah; nothing to her name but a future corpse that would remain. And it is he that had given her a name; he that had given her a purpose; he that took her out of nothing and made her something. _I am your saviour,_ he had said, something twisting up his lips, _but your debt is yet to be paid for my kindness. There are connotations, you understand?_ )

"Of course there are consequences."

And Levine does not know whether those words exit his lips or if those words are Snow's—all he knows is Madison Saros, in his head. He made her; he was her engraver; he _saved_ her—

(And she had returned the favour.)

He laughs, then. It is an explosion out of his lips; it is a laugh, and then it is another, and it does not stop gargling out of his throat. For oh, of course:

She is his beginning. She is his end.

And when the bullets engulf Levine, he is laughing still. Blood lets out of his lips, in their frenzied chuckle, and he is laughing, laughing, he is laughing wild.

He is laughing red.

…

…

…

Snow looks down at the corpse underneath him. His face wrinkles in tautness.

"Dispose of him," he mutters, and the soldiers by his side scurry to retrieve the body. _Levine Saros,_ and disgust festers in his chest. The world was better without him.

He looks away from the laboratory. It was a pathetic sort of place; spartan, sterile, so devoid of _life_. Yet it had spawned a catastrophe for him to grapple.

He waits for them to wrap the body in white tarp; waits for them to drag the corpse and any evidence of Saros's death to disappear. Till he is watching a burning laboratory, and the only one left is the Head Peacekeeper, Rothford, next to him.

"Any more commands, sir?"

Snow lets his emotions pass, first. Flashes of flame; of cold verglas; of putrid waste and pungent stenches. He waits. Waits until he is impartial and his feelings he can continain.

"Continue the search for Madison Saros's body. And be quiet about it."

Rothford nods—solemn. Eyes level; unquestioning.

Snow leaves the burning laboratory behind. There is no more chaos for him to clean up there.


	14. The Dying and The Decrying - Night Before.

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

That celebration was…

Unusual.

( _Fun_. That was what she'd felt. Adrenaline and life shrilled in her veins while chardonnay and foam creamed her throat. Euphoria pervaded her head and Hera Dalenka had never felt _better_.)

But she's feeling… feeling…

(Mercurial. Exuberant. Frantic.)

… strange.

She's back at the Two quarters, now. She isn't sure how. She'd stumbled in. She can't control her limbs. They shake. And her own fingers are shaking, too, and she's a little bit numb, unsteady, unsure how she should feel. Her heart's palpitating.

What had happened at the party?

It wasn't mandatory - there were few of them, there, actually. The party was something special that the Leader Head Gamemaker made. _For the Careers only,_ she'd said. _Join us, if you'd like_.

She knows that Four Male hadn't gone. Rhodos. And her District Partner. Kiernan. Too young for it. But… everyone else did.

(She did.)

There wasn't much she remembered. Only fragments of the sharpest moments were left in her mind, like jagged verglas amid a land of mist. All else had fell, like snowfall, down into oblivion.

A memory—she'd seen Dior. With that Victor. She doesn't remember from which Games, just that she was from Eight. A staredown they were indulging in. Their faces... staticky, enmisted, distilled…

She can't remember their faces. Do they matter? Theyaren't what Hera needs to remember. There was something _else,_ more imminent, more _tremendous_ that happened at the party… she can't remember _what_ , exactly, but she knew it was more important than Dior Marini.

(It was hurt. Anger. Something agonizing. Pain oozed off Dior and the Victor in waves. Even Hera could feel _that._ )

And she'd seen the One boy. Chrys. He was so… confused. Lurching around. He'd found a place to sit by a carved bench under pine trees. All of him was shrouded by shadows. And Chrys had met her eyes, and he seemed so…

Faraway. Their eyes had met, then. That moment Hera remembers clearly. It was glass amid fog. There was an understanding. Perhaps. But that washed away with the crashes and screams and the chaos of feet.

(Explosions. Starlight. Dust. Crazed limbs. Sporadic coughs. Pleading yells. Something had happened, then. But she doesn't… _remember._ )

What Hera remembers, is this:

She'd gone down to the bar. It was rustic; made-up of boards and nails that streaked across the counter. There were men, there, in their zany fashions, with beards that curled up to their eyes and half-shaved heads that dropped ponytails down to their ankles.

They greeted her. She isn't sure if they knew who she was— _a tribute, about to enter the Games_ —but they treated her like she was one of them. They brought up her winning grin. Told her that they'd seen her somewhere. And they'd raised a glass, and said, _toast to that._

(She laughed. She beamed. She passed her smiles like they were candy. And they clapped and slammed their coins on the counter, and they said to the bartender, _some more, some more—_ )

Alcohol. And she felt so ethereal, and then there was more, more bills and more drinks, and she doesn't remember when she hits the ceiling, but she was in space and she was entirely…

Weightless.

( _No_.)

And she's falling. Hera's falling and her fingers scramble for a counter, for something to root her, for something to _clutch_. And she holds a counter, the one in her quarters, _(not the one in the bar, there's no rust-metal pushing against her fingers, safe, she's in her quarters_ ), and she staggers, and what echoes in her mind is—

 _No no no no no_. She promised herself. She was gonna get better. She was gonna get _ready._ She didn't have to…

(It's the last time you'll have them, anyway, Dalenka. Why not?)

Hera sucks in a breath. Her hands move across the wall, and she's staggering, she's so close to _falling_.

She staggers into her room and she collapses in bed. Hera closes her eyes, forces her breaths out. _She's okay._ She's safe. She's not in the party anymore. She's alive, she's here, she's _okay._

But why does she feel so…

She's shivering. She gasps breaths, in and out again. She's so cold. And her only thought is this.

There were explosions in the party.

And she doesn't know if they were real. She doesn't know if they were made-up.

(It's all she is. High or nothing; and the in-betweens are what hurt most. When she knows what's happening to her but she doesn't _stop_. She _can't_ stop. She'll tell herself not to, and she'll remember that in her relapse, and she'll relapse, and…)

What is there to Hera, at all?

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

Rhodos clasps his fingers, and presses them together to stop his _twitching_.

His private session went well enough, earlier in the day. He'd showed them what he could do: that he was versatile with a spear, that he wasn't bad with a trident. He scored a 9: classic for a Career. It isn't too high; isn't too low. But he's anxious _._

(It's not _actually_ anxiety. Not in the strictest definition; not really. But there is a vacuum in his chest, and his skin is cool, and he doesn't really feel anything at all. He isn't anxious; but he's feeling… something.)

He'd skipped the party because of it. But now he's wishing he'd went. The District Four quarters are… overwhelming. They're Capitol apartments; furnished with white quartz, with abstract art. Serrated crystalline waves make the walls, and they're so beautiful they're almost moving _,_ no, _hurtling_ with power that's reminiscent of the seas back at home.

(He wonders if they use the same room year after year: if this had once been the place of the District Fours of the prior year, and the year before, and then the year before that. He wonders how many are dead now.)

If only he wasn't here.

(He could be back with Mrs. Larimar. He could be strumming a guitar, or be playing around with a lyre, or trying his hand at the piano. If the Games were not here: he could be living a dream. Making the music he'd liked; producing his own tunes. Perhaps, one day, he could've shown them off, too, if he could gather up the courage to do so. He would've: and then he would be a different person. Not Rhodos McNamara, a tribute of the Hunger Games, the fighter, the follower. He would be Rhodos McNamara: acclaimed musician, maybe. Maybe, without the Games, his parents would've let him go down that route.)

Maybe.

The door creaks. Rhodos's eyes flick up to his District Partner. Despite her tightened posture, she's undeniably weary.

Althea doesn't acknowledge him. Her eyes scour their apartment; but it's offhand, like she doesn't quite know what to do. She moves towards the counter - where there's a coffee grinder. That action itself makes Rhodos start: he hadn't seen Althea drink anything but water.

_("It's to keep a clear head," she'd told him, that time he'd offered her a drink, back at the Victor parties. "You're better off when you're alert.")_

"Althea?" he says. "Are you okay?"

Althea whirls towards him. For a moment, she looks like she's about to burst. Her face's gaunt, and a tightness lines her brow. She looks like he'd seen her in training—that same concentration, that same coldness, that same…

_(Pain?)_

"I'm fine."

Althea's hands leave the coffee cup she'd held. She strolls away from the counter—towards the quarters.

(He should say: _that's great. You did amazing in the Private Sessions, by the way— a ten's insane._ He should let her go to her quarters; if not, he'll bother her _on purpose._ Right now, Rhodos's best course of action is _not to say anything_.)

But something overtakes him. Perhaps it is the way that Althea had looked so _defeated._ When before—she had been so cold, so victorious. Now, she's deflated, tired. Resigned.

This Althea he is seeing is so different from the one that he'd seen in the trains. Perhaps it is because he had gotten to know her, across the course of a week, and perhaps it is because they've talked more than a few nights away, about District Four and about the feeling of the sea's waves, and perhaps it is because they've bonded over their parents. But seeing her so obviously in _pain_ aches against him.

Rhodos hustles in a breath. He steels himself; he strains to make the words past his lips. "I… I don't think you are."

A laugh echoes from Althea. It's hollow, in her chest; sardonic, wracked. She turns to him. "What do you know, Rhodos?"

It's cold, it's bitter. It's thudding in pain.

(And she's right—he _doesn't_ know anything. He doesn't know what's gotten her so weary, doesn't know her past nor what's broken her down: Rhodos McNamara doesn't know a thing about Althea Ivory. They've talked about Four, sure: but their conversation had been shallow like the shore's waves, so much so without substance. He'd told her so much about himself; but her, about herself?)

(... she's right: Rhodos doesn't know the first thing about Althea. But he wants to.)

"Hey, uh." He feels his face flare, and Rhodos rubs the back of his neck. His ponytail knocks against his knuckles, as he levels his eyes at Althea. "I liked to do music, back at home."

(It's not something that he's shared with strangers. It's not something that he'd share with _anyone,_ out of the blue. Even when people had come up to him and asked what he loved to do, he'd fumble and say the generic _training_ , and he might've tacked _and music, too_ , like it's just an afterthought. But, Rhodos supposes: they're in a death game now. They're District Partners. Not quite strangers, anymore.)

Althea narrows her eyes at him, like she's suspecting some motive behind the topic change. But her curiosity gets the better of her. "What type of instrument?"

"Guitar. It's my favourite," and he feels his lips quirk. "You should try it too if you can. You're absolutely crazy with a bow—a guitar'll be a cakewalk for you."

Althea seems slightly confused, still; like the topic change's still inexplicable.

"What about you?" Rhodos supplies. "Uh, what do you like to do?"

And suddenly—his District Partner looks _unsure._

"I don't know," she says. "I haven't really… thought that much. Everything's been about training."

"It doesn't need to be," he reassures. "I mean, what do you like to do in your free time? There's got to be something. Not everything's gotta be all about _training_."

Althea stays silent.

"Or it can be. It's totally cool if you're passionate about training, though! Definitely gives you an edge in the Games… and _it shows._ "

He gazes at Althea anxiously. Althea breathes in; breathes out. It's like she's trying to think. Finally, her eyes look up to meet Rhodos.

"I don't know why you're doing this, Rhodos," she finally says. "I read people well. You're not trying to trick me. But you… don't have to do this. Whatever it is. I don't know you; you don't know me. We can just… keep it like that."

Something constricts his chest. He should just leave it like that—that's what Althea would _want_. And he isn't about to intrude, isn't about to make her uncomfortable. That's how she'll be happy. That's how they'll both be.

(But that would be a lie, he knows. Althea may want to remain distant; and he may be too willing to comply. But should he? Should they, anymore?)

Rhodos lets out a breath. "We can, if you want. But you're wrong—we do know each other. I know you're smart and strong. You like the feeling of the waves on your skin; you like the seagulls that squawk across the skies. You're cool but not aloof, and you're an amazing person. You're great with a spear, crazy good with a bow, and probably the most devoted to training in our District. Your _passion_ is training. And you know what I like too— music. You know about me, too."

Althea scoffs. But it's half-hearted.

"You don't have to close yourself off," Rhodos says, quietly. "You shouldn't need to."

Quietness overtakes the room. And Rhodos hopes.

"Well." Althea's lips quirk and she shakes her head—almost in spite of herself. "Since… you really wanted to know. There's somebody back at home that I'd like to get back to."

Her smile's a glimmer, then: so raw against the moonlight. And he's never seen it before: Althea, so wholly herself.

"Do you know who Kani Fairchild is?"

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

He isn't ready.

 _Five minutes,_ the voice in the speaker booms, and the words pin his skin with ice. All around him, the clatter of machinery echoes; the steps of a few people echo. _The end,_ he thinks, and then: _for their beginning._

His escort is a twenty-year-old woman, with an incomprehensible name, and she's one too eager for the Games. She fusses over him. _Last-minute brush-ups, we'll clear up the bags under your eyes easy, don't move, dearie, it'll be a fast one…_

Kiernan wants to scoff. He wants to glare at her: _go away,_ he'd seethe, _don't bother, I'm dying anyway._

But he doesn't. His heart's jumping like it's made of wires. Electricity's frenetic in his skin, and his eyes can't keep away from the launch tube. Transparent and cold: it's so clinical, so much like being in a test-tube.

(And that itself is darkly funny to him: for he is the Capitol's experiment, the boy thrown into the Games to prevent rebellion. What is he to them other than that: a lamb to the slaughter.)

He scoffs, then. _Three minutes,_ the speakers say. Kiernan bats away his escort's hands; and her expression crumbles before him. As if he gave a crap.

_Tributes: please enter your launch pads._

(It's stupid, the way the Capitol phrases things. They try to frame the launch as if it were voluntary, as if it's autonomous, but there's nothing voluntary about it all. As if, if he'd refused, he wouldn't be wrestled in—kicking and screaming, and marked for an earlier death than he would've had if he hadn't just conceded.)

He isn't ready to die. He isn't—he can convince himself, all right, he can _try,_ but he wants to _scream_. Maeve, the Capitol, the Games _—they've brought him here._ And no matter what the hell's happened in the 55th Games, no matter what he _feels_ about the Capitol displaying his sister in all her goddamned glory on-screen, it doesn't change a single thing: he's the Capitol's retribution. He's here _because of Maeve._

Kiernan's pushed in. The tubes close. _One minute until launch,_ the voice resounds again, and it's muffled; he's _trapped_. The Peacekeepers stare at him from the other side: watching, contemplating, _waiting._

The whirr of the platform beneath him creaks; the tube shakes as it ascends. His breathing's so shallow, _fuck,_ he has his inhaler in his fingers, he's okay, he'll be _okay_ , fuck he can't breathe, he wants to cry, _can't use them before the Games, you've got a limited supply,_ but he's choking and _how's that for dying, before the Games even begin—_

(And then, the glint of the sunlight slathers his hair, the tubes shudder open, and then he's breathing, his eyes are burning, the platform clicks _,_ and then Kiernan is in the Games.)

* * *

**Jordyn Moriau. District 13.**

The Games shimmer back to her, in a sheen.

It is familiar.

But not because she'd been in them, a month, two months, so many _(so little)_ months prior.

(Not because when she dreams, the Games propagate themselves in her mind. Not because when she sleeps, all she sees is their faces, back in her face: resigned, grinning, tired; _Scott_ , _Maeve_ , _Brynn,_ destroyed, pained, tired—)

Everything she's seen—the death, their damnation, her dreams— stands as a mirror of the 55th that she can't break free from. But it is not because of _that_ which makes her stomach rile so when she gazes upon the 56th Games.

(In an uncanny way, it looks so much like her Arena. But it is not the same, still: because it is deluged in gold, it is radiated in amber, it is nature, _gilded,_ it is unreal.)

She closes her eyes. She is ready. Jordyn is _ready_ : she has protection on her body and she has a gun in her belt and she's geared-up, she is _prepared_.

(But the vest is so tight against her chest, and she doesn't like the sensation at all; her fingers shake on the gun, she isn't sure how to hold such a weapon at all; and the way Cynane sees her imbues her with unease, for there is no reprieve from her eyes, and Jordyn feels so small.)

And she has a squadron of men behind her, still. Her mission is simple. She'd known that the operation was inevitable, after she'd escaped the Arena. After she'd shown them just _what_ could happen. And her nerves had steeled, after the war-cries and the periphrastic chants. When she'd seen the verve of Thirteen and her face in lights.

(When she had sworn to herself: she would no longer allow herself to be _impuissant_.)

They're in Panem. Vultures—brown-nosed beaks, gore-red eyes, a screech in their haunches— splatter the bricks and sprawl upon the streets. The yells for change resounded from their gullets; in breathy whispers mouth-to-mouth.

Propaganda. Flyers. Whispers. All a harbinger of the same thing— the arrival of a revolution.

She's the face of them all.

( _Annus mirabilis_. Cynane's lips had lifted, then, as Jordyn watched her gaze upon the chaos that waged conflagrations across the Districts.)

A genesis.

A change.

Something new.

Something better.

The revolution had come, and Panem had responded. Riots ravage the sights of Three; Six; Eight; One. All with a myriad of cries.

Three.

 _THEY DISPENSE AND FORGET_. _DON'T LET THE CAPITOL FORGET._

(Her name is Ryleigh. His name is Daniel. That is what she remembers. She'd seen the way they'd acted at his interview, like gazelles caught in strobe-lights; seen the way the pair clutched at each other like they were one another's lifelines.)

Six.

_Bring our children back to us._

_(_ Jordyn knows the tributes, there, too. Herman and Fascia. How Herman shook in fear during Six's chariot-rides. She'd seen the protective gaze Fascia had thrown Herman's way, and then the flash of intimidation in Fascia's eyes, like she was daring anyone to fight them.)

Eight.

_KILL THEM ALL._

(And there is something about the Eight pair that resonates with her. Sadie Rendevez and Victor Vernina were their names. The former eighteen; the latter fourteen. The child clung onto the older girl, and the older girl shielded the child under her arm: protective, careful, _kind_. Despite her vociferous attitude and the middle-finger she'd sent up to the Capitol that had been seared in all of Panem's mind.)

(Jordyn, too, has a feeling that Victor is not the child's name. But that, she supposes, she will know another time.)

… and then there's One.

_Don't let them forget what happened in the 55th Games._

Snow's visage is graffitied upon brick. Vigils are held for the dead. Maeve's fucked-up angelic face pulses on the streetsides in a yellow gleam. Madison's suicide is broadcast across the skies.

Her face emblazons their _banners,_ their _cry_. Jordyn had seen it all from the safety of a screen: it was so unreal.

(No longer.)

" _You cannot stand around, Jordyn. You are the face of this rebellion—you are its leader."_

_She was there, with Cynane, in the war-room. She'd watched her: they were alone. And discomfort had resided in her stomach, every time Cynane's eyes had met hers._

" _Here is the list," Cynane said. "That is your quest. You know what you have to do. You've done it before. Go in—get out."_

" _Save them."_

(Is she even ready?)

"Your _friend_ is getting ready," Cynane says, and Jordyn feels the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. There is so much coldness in her voice, and Jordyn can imagine the President's face, even as she gazes on ahead, forces the Arena back in her head.

"Spent too long in convalescence."

(How does one spend too long in convalescence?)

Jordyn does not ask that. Instead, she lets out a breath. Nods. "Okay," she says, and closes her eyes.

 _No_. No more companions—no more people _dead_. She had a squadron already; was that not enough? They did not need to bring _her_ upon their mission. Especially not right after recovery. Especially not on a mission like—

"I presume she'll be joining you."

Cynane's eyes pierce her back. Jordyn's throat is chained. She turns her eyes towards the leader.

"Yes."

"Good. I expected as much." Cynane pushes her lips together. "Although there is concern about her eyes."

Jordyn presses her fingers into her palm. "Okay," she says out. "And—you're still making—letting her on this mission?"

"Her health should not be a worry," Cynane states, and her fingers swish over the shimmering hologram; like a touch in a resplendent sea, dipped in gold.

"Do you really think we could conduct this mission without her?"

And Jordyn's throat constricts. What Cynane has not said lingers in the air.

_We need the publicity._

"Safe travels," Cynane says. Her eyes move away, and Jordyn can only stare at Cynane's back, conscious of the silhouette she projects.

The words slip through Jordyn's lips. "Thank you."

Cynane does not look at her, still.

"Ah," Cynane says, and her eyes are upon the entrance of their room. "There she is."

The door opens, and Jordyn's heart jumps into her throat. She'd heard the news, creeping through the grapevines - but she didn't think it was _true._ Consciously, she _knew_. But she didn't want to believe it. Couldn't— for what it _meant._

Until now.

Jordyn's eyes are wide and her mouth is dry and her stomach is empty as she _stares,_ as her stuttering mind attempts to work itself again _._

_It's her._

_She's here._

_She's actually_ _**alive** _ _._

* * *


	15. The Redolent and The Red - Bloodbath.

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

It's redolent, first of all. Caressed in the golden sunlight, the Arena's a creature, lathered in liquid-gold and drifting in pyrite mist. And if he forgets the amber woodlands and forgets the chirps of birds and the shaking grip of his fist; if he forgets where he _is_. It's like he's on the back of a lion.

He jolts. It's almost too beautiful. It's so far removed from…

_(District Two. With its riots and its chaos; the clangs of metal against buildings, the chants of the people, calling, wanting, desiring, from the pits of their souls. Fires, that blaze a conflagration across the city-streets—ember-lit, that left flecks of amber foil over street-stones. Fake yellow splattering the brick walls: a grotesque caricature of Panem's emblem, struck-through with red blood.)_

Kiernan lets out a breath. And the air's so… fresh. So… _different,_ from the smog-riddled Two. He'd had to have an inhaler anywhere he went because specks of dust would get into his throat, and he'd cough and rattle at the flare that'll engulf his lungs.

But not _here_. He can breathe, in the Arena. How _ironic_.

_(Don't. Don't think about that now.)_

Kiernan's eyes level at the Cornucopia. It's a golden horn, one broken in with a crevasse. Crates and supplies and weapons peek from the darkness; illuminated by a sun's shard. Above is the countdown, projected into the sea-blue clear skies above.

_29… 28… 27…_

(It's slightly uncanny. There's an eerie sort of resemblance that the forests bring him: dusted in gold, swirling in the cold winds. But he can't quite place _what._ )

_18… 17… 19…_

Kiernan gazes at Careers. The entire alliance—Chrys, Dior, Rhodos, Althea, even Hera—are primed to rush towards the Cornucopia. And his eyes sweep towards the other tributes.

What he sees makes his throat go dry

They're poised to run. But not _away_. So many eyes are riveted on the Cornucopia, and it's the farthest thing from _fear_ that lights up their irises. Determination. Resolve. _Desire_. Not even the youngest look terrified.

_(What… what's happening?)_

_11… 10… 9…_

They're looking at each other—at _least_ District Three and Six and Nine, communicating with their eyes. It's typical, of the Outer Districts to have alliances. But they're so secure; so _sure_ in themselves.

And that's when he catches Eight Girl's eyes.

She's at the podium on the opposite side. Her dark eyes are on his, _cold,_ unbridled. It strikes him, then: that she'd been staring at him for a _while._

His breath shorts.

_(It's like he's prey.)_

_6… 5… 4…_

He can't think about that now. The Cornucopia. The _Cornucopia._ That's where he has to go. That's where they'll all be. That's where he'll have to be to survive.

_(He can't think about dying.)_

_3…_

_2…_

_1._

Kiernan opens his eyes and _runs_.

A frenzy of sound desecrates the Arena. He's running, _running_ to the centre, and out of the corner of his eyes he sees tributes gallop their directions away; like ferine creatures down into the forests of the Arena, like running rats back to the places where they'd began. And he sees it in sight, the golden horn, it's so _close,_ he should be there, soon, he _will be,_ it's just him and the Careers and the Outer District stragglers, it should be easy—

And then he feels a kick to his side and something in him _crunches_ and his vision shakes black. Pain races over his skin like insects, and he bites back a scream. He's _on_ the ground, and—

Above him towers the District Eight Girl.

She has a _machete._ Panic swallows his body: energy roils his skin, frantic, frenetic, like death's swished a hand over him— no, _no_ , he needs to _go_.

He curls his legs under hers, and _he has to take her to the ground,_ that's his only _chance,_ if he _can't,_ he _can't—_

But she simply hops over his swiping legs, and lands on her two feet with a soft thud to the other side, like he'd done nothing at all.

 _No, fuck, no._ He has to _go, go, go,_ he can't _stay here,_ any longer and he's going to die, and—

_(And then he's just like one of the outer Districts on camera, struggling under the presence of someone he could never touch, someone that'll_ _**reap** _ _his life away, cause he's just a_ _**thing** _ _and he doesn't_ _**matter** _ _and did he actually_ _**think** _ _he was any better than any of them—)_

It's his end. He's _under_ her and she'll tear him _asunder_. It's his end.

Kiernan Alcraiz waits to die.

And in his death-breaths he closes his eyes and grits out his snarl. _Fuck you, Maeve, bet this's what you've fucking wanted—_ and his sister's there in his head, his sister that _isn't there,_ that's _never there,_ that wouldn't even spare him a last glance before she hopped off to volunteer and dragged him down to the dredges of hell too _just 'cause_ —

She isn't looking at him. _Eight_ isn't looking at him. Her head's twisted sideways, towards somewhere else. It's like he's an afterthought.

He should _escape_ , now. But then her eyes flick back, she looks down at him, and it is so clear, then—

Even an _outlier_ pities him.

She hefts her machete. But it's not for _him_ , she doesn't care about _him_ , because he's stupid, he's useless, he's just a kid, he'll _die anyway_ , didn't matter if it was _her_ or _someone else,_ he'll _die_ —

(And he wants to prove her wrong, there and then: he wants to maul her and he wants to smother her and he wants to make her _suffer_ , he wants to wrap a garrotte around her neck and he wants to break a column out of her spine, and it'll jut out like a bauble, it'll gleam like a pearl in the redolent light. And she'll be laughed at by the Capitol because she's just _entertainment,_ who fucking cares if she _dies—_ )

Eight's already gone. And Kiernan twists upon his back and scrambles to his feet as he sees her _advance_ towards Rhodos, a snarl upon her lips, and Kiernan wants to yell a warning because Rhodos's got his back turned to her and _he can't see her coming—_

And a shape streaks in front of Eight.

It is over with a blink. Eight spear skewers its head. And then Kiernan watches as what-had-once-been the District 11 Male fall against the ground, his red blood spooling out of his neck.

Rhodos notices. He swirls around, and then they are in a standstill for a moment. It is a staredown; Eight glares, Rhodos stares back.

But then Eight darts towards the supplies, grabs a bag, and _runs_.

And Kiernan hears a frustrated roar.

And the owner of the voice is Dior.

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

She is mad _._

Too many arrive at the Cornucopia. Morethan the previous years. Dior had lost count, after the initial sprint towards the golden horn. And she would not mind, other times, for they are really just _sheep_ , so desirous, so delirious, of survival.

But there are no _deaths_ yet, and the one cannon that's resounded in the skies is by _Eight_ no less, and those running think that they can take the _Careers_ head-on _._

Audacity reigns in the Arena already. It is disgraceful. It is unearthly. It is unspeakable. It is not _tradition._

( _Strangle, laugh, just one more—her neck'll break open, what d'you think she is? Not so much a Career than dead. Who do you think you are,_ _ **Mattie Marini**_ _, nothing but flesh and blood, you are a_ _ **child,**_ _you are_ _ **nothing.**_ _)_

Dior watches the Eights run and she is _mad._

Her javelin. She has her _javelin._ It is by her side: she is far too _ready._ Sadie Rendevez _—Eight, Eight_ is in her line of sight, she merely has to throw, to aim, to shoot—

(But she can't aim—can't focus. And the lessons with her parents come back: _focus on the target, Dior. Hit the centre, Dior._ And she would force herself to _concentrate_ , but every time she lifted her eyes and felt the pressure of their eyes, her aim had always shaken.)

Dior throws. And her javelin soars, and Dior's heart rises ( _send a spoke through her heart, impale her and let her die, let the child beside her cry,_ vengeance, _that's what Dior_ _ **needs**_ _—)_

 _It veers._ Offside—down, thudding into the grass, two inches off her target.

Frustration encroaches her lips, and Dior, oh, Dior wants to _scream._

Her eyes thrust towards the bags, the supplies, there has to be a _weapon, somewhere—_ but all she finds is machetes and kukris and knives, and that is not what she _needs,_ she needs to kill her, _Eight,_ she needs to, she _needs to—_

A spear.

She takes it in her arm, braces for a throw, _god_ , she is ready, _nothing can stop her_. But when she looks back Eight is gone.

_No._

Her eyes go wide, and then she's _frantic_. Eight's _gone,_ along with her _companion,_ nowhere to be seen. And Dior's suddenly so aware of the other Careers: of Rhodos's stare, of the way they'd seen her _fail._

Chrys. And her throat constricts. _No_. He couldn't've seen _that._

 _Oh, no._ He's too busy _killing._

First, it is the District 10 Male. He is dead, so fast; beaten down with the clean slice of axe down his chest. And then the District Seven Male: slain, cut open in half, his torso split in blood and his mouth wide and open from his beheading.

 _No._ He can't do _better._ Because she _knows_ Chrys, and Chrys'll be confident, of course, like nothing had happened at all. He'll _undermine_ her, she sees it in his _eyes_ , he'll have killed two and he'll see her and it'll be on his face, _her audacity,_ her _audacity_ and how pathetic was her play at _leader,_ cause she's justsome rich kid that bought her way into the Games, while he's here because he's _valued_ because he's on a _scholarship_ because he's actually _**good—**_

(No. She's good. She's not here because she's rich. She's here because she can do it. She'll vivisect the animals that murdered her sister; she'll _end_ them.)

Where _the fuck_ are the animals?

And there's the District Twelves, running off, a ways away from where she stands, and oh: oh, they'll do.

* * *

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

He watches as kids fall to his blade, and there is a… feeling that takes his heart.

(The District Ten Male dies. His chest, caved open, a split fig spurting flesh-red. And he has seen the scene so many times before: back at One, relishing the broadcasts _live,_ getting _giddy_ every moment a tribute was felled, _twenty-two more to go till the crown, twenty-one, twenty._ But being there, living the moment, killing—)

It is not like how he fights a dummy.

(The District Seven Male dies. There is a crescent that is embedded in his throat, and he'd watched, as he gurgled, as he'd suffocated upon golden grass. Watched as he gasped like a skinned fish for breath, but the red underneath his throat pooled like wings, and he'd watched till there was only a cluster of limbs left of him.)

Chrys does not know how he feels. All he knows is that he is a _machine,_ one so perfectly trained, one that does what the Academy's taught him. That's what they all are— _Madison Saros_ , that was what she was, too, last Games. He'd never been in a _special training program_ like she did, of course, directed by Doctor Levine, but he's strong. He's powerful and he does what he's told because that's how he'll save his family. He'll win and then he'll bring them up a happier life, he'll give them riches and he'll make them _proud,_ that's what he _wants_.

It's for his family.

(And he thinks about the families of Seven and Ten, watching their screens and their children's deaths. He can hear their gasps, even, from here; the vibrations of their cries, their screams upon the twist of his hilt. They're so _terrified,_ because their children are dying in front of their eyes.)

What does that make him? He's here for his _family,_ here for Emilio and Melissa and his father and for his mother's death-bed wish, and why is he _here_ , why is he _killing_? So other families can die to make his own? Is that it? _What has he become?—_

"You monster!"

It is a scream. It is a slash. And then his skin breaks, his bones dislocate—

The flesh-piece of his arm thuds on the ground.

And the District Six Female picks up the axe from its remains.

Shock rattles in his chest. Chrys is _breathing,_ his eyes are too-damn _wide,_ he's staring at the axe on the ground and he's staring at _himself_ and he's not anything, he's _without an arm,_ that arm that's bleeding out of his severed skin now, like a flow of malt-blood, the sliced arm of the dummy he'd attacked back at the Academy, claret sprawling on the ground—

He's stunned, and he doesn't even register the pain, then, doesn't _feel_ anything then, just that he's killed Seven and Ten and there's adrenaline in his veins. There's adrenaline in his veins and he's staring at Six who's cocking her head back at him with a smile back at him _(so cocksure so here so fucking smart isn't she, for almost taking down a goddamned Career)._

He roars. He still has an axe _(he's delirious he has an axe he has an_ _ **axe**_ _)_. He swipes at her. She evades, but he slashes again. And a thick streak of claret streaks her face. Six _yells_ ; but a step and two and then she's running, dashing off into the forestry, and he _follows,_ he stumbles, he lumbers, his throat's raw-sore from crying for her _death,_ but his feet squash against yellow and they're queasy, limbs of nothing really, and he's collapsing underneath—

He crashes, _hard,_ onto the ground. Blood flings across the yellow glades. He's bleeding—his arm's a _stump,_ and he holds it, clamps it, make sure it doesn't flow ( _filling the brim of his palm, like a red-wine cup)_ , and he's dazed, he's heaving, his mind's going wild, he's _delirious_.

He's falling apart. He feels himself drop to the ground. His axe leaves his hand. Red-wet gunk flows out of his stump and it's so warm and slick and _wet_ (and ugly, so very _ugly, he's doused in liquid-gold but it's not the liquid of the tribute parade, oh, no, no, it_ _ **pours**_ ). He holds what's left of it. And the frazzled remains of flesh teases between his fingers.

He's dizzy. He's delirious. But his eyes flick towards the Cornucopia _._

Bandages. _Bandages._ He needs to make a tourniquet. Chrys stumbles, and he doesn't know how he gets there, but he does. His arm's so slick, and his head's slipping into the abyss, and he can't _feel,_ not really, but the pain's sinking in, it's so _profound,_ so _much— how much blood has he lost, it's enough, it's too much—_

_(Not enough to what he's spilt.)_

He's tying the bandages to his arm, wrenching his arm into a tourniquet, thank _fuck_ they've taught how in One. He forces the flow to stymie, and even then he makes out the Bloodbath in the distance.

Chrys watches as Dior murders the District Twelves. Their heads— stolen by her javelin, skewed through the throat like they're pigs and Chrys feels his chest constrict, more than how he'd already been _breathing_.

And Dior looks upon her prey, and there's a satisfied smirk that dashes the corner of her lips. And then her eyes roam around and _no, not him—_ but oh, they meet him exactly.

Surprise takes her eyes. It lights up her countenance, for a moment, until she slips back to impassivity again. But Chrys is _oh so sure_ that he sees the corner of her already-smirking lips lift.

Fury roils within his skin. Oh, he knows what she's doing. She smirks because she's _triumphant_ and he _watches_ without an arm left and that's what they _are,_ she's _won,_ he's _damaged_ _goods_ , and—

(And Chrys thinks about home, to his parents, his family watching, the horror enshrined in their eyes and Emilio's gaping mouth and his stifled cry, Melissa's tears brimming by her eyes and Julius's shock and how his father'll have to clasp his hands over Laurel's eyes, cause _fuck,_ he's in the Arena, so _dying, dying,_ he's _done—_ )

No.

His family's the reason why he's here. They, _watching_ him, as he _suffers_ here—he _knows_ why he's here, he's here for them, and them _only._ They'll get a better life with this, his trials, that's all they need, here, he's doing this for _them._

It's his destiny.

And the goddamned Outer District tributes want to _fuck_ that up. They want to kill him, _maim_ him, and they want to _get away_ with it. And he won't endure Dior's smirks, the stares of the rest of the Career pack, the chortles of the outliers, just to _die_. He's not just here to fucking _perish_.

Fuck them all. That's why he has to survive.

(For them to die.)

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District Four.**

The District Eleven girl's running.

She'd watched Eleven approach the Cornucopia. Like a little rat, she'd edged the corners; twitching and sniffing, something like tears streaking down her eyes. Looked around. And then she grabbed a bag, and she'd _run_.

It wasn't a futile effort, really—Althea's first knife had veered off wide, thunking against the hollow golden bass of the Cornucopia's insides. And then the little rat _really_ darted.

Could she just let prey go?

And Althea's running, behind; she has two, three more throwing knives— and they're not her preferred weapon, she likes using a halberd more, those things she can throw and that soar through the air clean as a sail, but knives, her knives are good enough already _—_

— and she's _throwing_ , it's so easy, _impaling's_ easy, she just has to—

Knife. After knife. After knife. Althea grits her teeth; the rage in her heart stokes. She's performing even worse than _Talon,_ who had two kills by then, despite how he'd died so _quickly_. She's not weak. No. She's not weak at _all._ That's not why she's here. That's not why she has a hand on the blade or why she's here in the beating heat of glades or why she's sweltering with _rage_. She just has to—

_Kill somebody._

And Eleven's _right there,_ her back wide-open like wingblades open for the taking _,_ and Althea's gaining, and her heart's lifting, rising, increasing in beat and strength, oh, she's _so damn close—_

She kills the District Eleven Female. It is easy work. It's simple—it's straightforward, really. Althea opens an envelope of claret across her throat and the corpse of the child throws herself on the ground, gagging. Althea watches as the blood seeps out. There is nothing she should care about the dead.

There is nothing she should care about the dead.

But something stirs in her stomach, and there's revulsion that grips her throat, and she _wants_ to gag, the scent's so _putrid,_ the metallic blood's sour in her mouth, and she feels like she's retching cause she's staring at a dead _rat_ ( _a dead glossy-eyed rat, a mop of black hair and an arm lolling by and body half-sinking in the golden glow)_ and she's _won_ it's a _conquest_ she _detests_ it _it's so disgusting it's so it's so—_

Althea stands still as the cannon blows. She grips her machete in one hand and tightens her other fist.

Her fingers stop shaking.

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District Four.**

He's ransacking the Cornucopia when Nine appears.

It had to be her plan—to _sneak in,_ as all the Careers became too engaged in battle to notice. To take their supplies away and make off with what she could, a weapon, a blade, anything that any outlier couldn't just _get_.

And that's what she _does_ have: a sickle in her hand. And her face's stone, and she's staring at him, breathing heavily.

And he's caught in-between; like a puppet on strings. He has a spear with him; he can _finish this._ His Career instinct tells him: he _should_ throw the spear. He _should_ kill Nine Girl through.

(But… he's rooted down. He _knows_ the reality, here—killing's what he should do. That's what he'd been taught. That's why he'd spent countless hours at the stations—throwing, going, be _better, be stronger, yes, Rhodos, that's more like it, now you'll stand a chance at the Games.)_

(And he's staring at Nine Girl, who should be just another _dummy,_ should just be another red dot on the target to mark. And he's…)

(… staring.)

There is fear that flashes through Nine Girl's eyes. She's tensed, and she's like a cornered animal, on her haunches, about to _run_. Instinct acts over mind—and before he even realises he's moving he's launching himself over the boxes and sacks, skidding to a stop in front of Nine Girl's escape.

 _Do something, Rhodos. (And then it's his father's voice, sneering back at him—make us proud, don't tell me you're_ _ **incompetent**_ _, we_ need _this, we need to get back on_ top, don't you see—)

Nine Girl's wide-eyed; caught, so irrevocably _trapped._ And Rhodos knows.

He lets out a breath. He brings his throw-arm up. _It'll be quick, you won't feel anything, you'll go and—_

A line of red drags open from her throat. Rhodos's eyes are wide as Nine Girl's sickle clatters to the ground; a smile of blood embedded in metal.

That smile of red she drew over her own neck.

And he can't quite _breathe_ and even as she's dying she's _speaking, no, not speaking, chortling—_

" _T-this… t-this is for…"_

She is dead. Her cannon blasts.

Rhodos wonders how the Capitol'll explain that.

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

"It's done."

Dior says it, and it echoes in Hera's ear—hollow as a bass. She blinks, and the scene before her comes back into focus.

(Gold, dashed in pouches of blood. Hera Dalenka supposes it is… pretty.)

"How many are dead?"

That is Althea Ivory's voice, she recognises. Always melodic, but now tangled with heavy roughness.

It is from the _excursion_. It's from the _heat_ of the run; it's from the _exuberance_ of the hunt.

And Althea is unperturbed as always; she is insouciant, as always. But there is a heaviness in her voice, and there is a tiredness that tinges her eyes, and there is a _feeling_ that weighs upon her face: something _tumultuous,_ that not even her wide smile or her casual poise could hide.

( _How many are dead?_ Hera had counted. She'd watched them all die. Felled—one by one. Blood explosions. Cries of the doomed. Cannons, tunnelling into the night.)

"Do you want to count the corpses?"

Dior drawls out the words. Bit by bit. It's nonchalant. It's icy. It's so devoid of…

 _Spite_.

(It would be better if there were spite infused in Dior's words.)

"You do it."

Althea's a lot more… snippy. Cold. Hera isn't sure why. Althea's typically… nicer. Not like—not like _this._

Dior scoffs. "I'll count mine. Two. How about you?"

"One."

"Rhodos. Kills?"

And there's a cleared throat. Hera hears a small voice. A strong voice. Roughed-out yet so insecure. "I—uh, got the Nine Girl."

Dior doesn't even bat an eye. "Good. Where's Chrys?"

"… he's injured."

There's not even a beat that's missed when Dior speaks again. "Well. We better go get him, then."

And just like that—they disperse. Hera knows she's supposed to be following them. But she can't get her feet to move ahead of her. She can't _move._

Because this is where she is: Hera is in the bloodbath. Hera is strewn amid golden forests flecked with red. Hera is standing above them all.

Hera stares at the wreckage of the dead before her. Her head's clearer than ever.

And there is only one thing she knows.

(She has no idea why she's here.)


	16. The Driven and The Discordant - Night 1.

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

He's armless.

 _Armless. Fucking armless._ It's a litany that repeats itself in his head. His head that's currently pounding with a damned _headache_. That's what he _knows. Armless, fucking armless, he's fucking—_

Chrys lets out a breath and presses his back further against the cool gold-metal of the Cornucopia. It slides a chill down his spine, but a chill's better to _distract_ himself from the shit that's reigning on in his brain—

_Armless. How're you gonna do anything armless? You're not gonna be able to_ _**fight** _ _, you're defenceless, you've got a fucking_ _**headache** _ _, you're, what the_ _**hell** _ _are you even doing—_

Chrys closes his eyes. But it's no damned _help_ at all because the weight (or rather, lack _thereof)_ of his left arm's affecting his balance, his _vertigo_. And whatever he _tries_ , he can't keep his mind—

(District Ten and District Seven. They come back to him easy. Their wretched faces. Their _destroyed_ faces. He'd pulled them apart. And he doesn't feel _sorry_ for that part (he didn't he _didn't_ he _couldn't—_ ) and he doesn't feel _sorry_ the families that have watched them die, their despair rolling from their eyes, he, he…)

District _Six_. Her name's coming back to him, now. _Fascia_. That one that'd screamed and called him a _monster_ and slashed his _goddamn_ arm off. That left him like _this._ Fascia, fucking, that _fucking_ Six girl.

(Dior had gazed upon him, her chin tilted, her nose tilted. She'd just looked at him, and at his arm, and she hadn't _needed_ to say anything to him. And his resentment flared, because _fuck,_ he _hates_ her _._ )

(Not just for how she'd rubbed it in. But for how she'd taken over Careers. The pack convened—as the sun sunk back in the horizon. And he'd been sitting by crates, nursing his _injury_. And of _course,_ Dior raised her head and took charge. Wordlessly. She eyed him, daring him to challenge her. And he didn't, of _course_ , he was dying from his split-fucking arm and his split-fucking _headache_.)

And now they're here. The rest of the Careers—packing with what little's left of their supplies. They're preparing for… whatever Dior _decides_.

He doesn't need to think about it. He _can't_ think about it. Chrys exhales another breath. Fucking hell. He doesn't need to do _shit_ under Dior, because all he _wants_ now is to find Six, he wants to _find_ Fascia, make her _pay—_

"Chrys?"

The voice jars him out of his thoughts. And Chrys levels his eyes to meet the kid looking back at him.

"I'm sorry," Kiernan says, and his voice is thick. "About your arm."

Chrys wants to fucking scoff. _Okay._ But all he sees when he looks at Kiernan is _Emilio,_ and then a pang slams in his chest, and different words extricate from his throat.

"Thank you."

Kiernan nods. He shifts on his feet, evading Chrys's gaze. "Uh," he says, finally, and Chrys realises that there's something in his hand. "I found a tourniquet. Capitol-made. If—if you want to replace your bandages."

Despite it all, something quirks the corner of Chrys's mouth. "I'd appreciate that. Thanks."

Kiernan hands him the tourniquet. And Chrys can't help but _remember:_ of that time Emilio walked up to him, bandages in his hands, and Chrys's heart had dropped to his stomach till Emilio calmed him down and told him that _no, everyone was okay,_ but he'd just wanted to learn how to _save people, (Chrys, I want to be a medic when I grow up!)_

And Chrys had taught him exactly how. And of course, that night hadn't turned out _well_ , because Chrys had made the mistake of telling Emilio that he'd learnt how to _fix people_ from the Academy, and it'd spiralled into an argument about the Games, but…

(But he won't think about that.)

Kiernan's watching him anxiously, now. Course, it's layered with a facsimile of aloofness—one he'd probably copied somewhere, either from the scowling eighteens in his District or from a brooding older sibling.

Chrys feels his lips quirk. He'd been _mortified_ when Emilio had begun to imitate his swearing; he'd protested to his father that _it really_ wasn't _his fault,_ but Lancer's raised eyes told Chrys that he knew very well otherwise. Younger siblings just about imitated everything, really.

"Are you going to be okay?" Kiernan says.

"I'll be," he says, and even though he doesn't know whether it's a truth or a lie, a sort of affection underpins his words, and a bit of a smile pulls by his lips. "Thank you."

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

Rhodos McNamara doesn't know how to feel after the Bloodbath.

Nine girl is dead.

(Nine girl had dragged a knife across her throat.)

Nine girl is dead.

And Rhodos McNamara is an impostor.

He'd lifted his spear, he'd _gazed_ upon her, he was ready to _shoot,_ to _throw—_

But he hadn't.

He'd said that he'd killed her. Told that to Dior, and her impassive eyes had flicked for a fleeting moment with _surprise._ He'd implied his murder in his poise _(a little stronger, a little less weary.)_ He'd acted it. He'd taken Nine girl's sickle ( _still stained wet, still dripping with her own blood_ ). He carried his spear and her sickle in his hands, and it's supposed to mean he's a Career _—he's competent, he's killed, he's doing what's expected of a Career, that's what's insinuated_.

_One down, dead by Rhodos McNamara, District Four male._

His words are still stuck in his throat. _I got the Nine girl._ It's a sickly-sweet statement burning in the back of this throat, it's so _odious_ , it's a _lie,_ so _perversive_ —

He'd _pretended._ He'd _shot,_ he'd _thrown,_ he'd _sliced_ red across her neck—but he _didn't._ He hadn't even touched her. She'd streaked a knife across her throat and his only involvement in her death as its _witness._

(And he'd stayed there, rooted to the spot, for longer than he'd like to admit. Because the shock of it all shook his breath: and his eyes were wide, his lungs were shaky, he was _breathing.)_

And he'd _lied_ that he killed her, _lied_ to the Careers, _lied_ to Dior, _lied_ to the Capitol. And it's so _unbearable,_ that lie, the way it eats at his _stomach,_ it's pungent in his _throat,_ it's heavy his _heart_. And he's vigilant, and he's alert, and he's aware, because someone _must've_ seen him kill, someone _must've_ known that he'd lied. And he'd _lied,_ and he's _undermining_ them, the _Careers,_ the _Capitol,_ the _Games_ , and that isn't—that _wasn't_ what he'd _ever_ wanted.

The last thing they would've wanted was for him to _pretend._

(And he'd pretended, _consciously,_ then. He'd approached the body, with his _spear,_ like she could've still been alive _(as if he hadn't just watched her die)_. And that body that laid upon the golden fields and boxes was spilling red out of her throat and he couldn't _not_ look.)

There was a mark on her wrist. When he'd inspected the corpse.

(It's not like he really… inspected it. He'd gotten… _close,_ but not _that_ close. There's something about the dead which keeps him a slight distance away.)

And something had caught in his breath when he'd seen that half-hook shape tattooed on her skin— because looking at it gave him deja-vu, looking at it transported him back to...

(He isn't sure where. But it was _familiar,_ too. He's sure he'd seen the symbol before. Upon walls—upon skin? Rhodos doesn't _know._ But he knows he's seen it... somewhere.)

(But where?)

It unnerves him. All of it unnerves him, really. Suicides—they've heard of _that,_ of course. Suicides haunt the mind of all Career Districts. They haunt the last _Games_. And it's _execrated,_ of course _;_ the names of the suicidal are besmirched _;_ derogated, _detested._

(And yet it's incorrigible, and it's recapitulated, and yet it's perennial.)

(And Madison Saros's death lasts in a longueur for them all.)

And that death… it wasn't something he needed to see. He knew death would happen, of course—he was reluctant, but he wasn't _naive_. He'd braced himself for it. Rhodos knew death would happen—knew he would throw his knives or thud a spear in chests and he knew _why_ it had to happen, for his _family's wealth,_ for their _advancement,_ and then for his _freedom,_ and he was _ready,_ he _is_ _ready,_ but—

But he hadn't expected someone to kill themselves. And then—seeing somebody _alive, dying_ , animated in convulsions and then—dead-eyed, flat, breathless.

He doesn't know how to feel.

(He's never known how to feel about the Games—not really. He'd known that killing was _necessary,_ it _is_ necessary, because that's what the Capitol _ordains,_ and that's what he'll do. The Games are an obstacle. The Games are the _Games_. And he wants to be a Victor, he wants to _win,_ so he can _live_ —but he's surrounded by the _Careers,_ he's surrounded by everyone that's so much _better, Dior Marini and Chrys Gerhart and Althea Ivory—_ and Rhodos McNamara is an _imposter,_ he's _not good enough,_ he's so _worthless_...)

(Can't even kill a _kid._ )

Rhodos takes a breath. He forces his District's disdain, his Academy's embarrassment, his parents' eyes, he forces the _world_ off his mind. Instead, he looks around. His District Partner's sitting atop a crate, her eyes vacant.

(... she's distracted. And Althea Ivory's never like that.)

Rhodos goes over to her.

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

She's _weak_.

That's what stays in her mind, after the Bloodbath. After the golden land is submerged in tar and she is left to herself, and her mind, and the crates that are bare of supplies.

Althea Ivory knows this. She is _weak._ She is _sick._ Her stomach is roiling in fluids and the nerves within her skin seize; there are slick-icicles that stab in her body and there is the harumph of coldness that lasts in her bones.

But she lets her nerves only as a tremble on her skin. She ignores the rations that are offered to her by Hera. Althea Ivory immerses herself in the cold of the night.

(Because that's what she is supposed to be—Althea Ivory, frigid, _controlled,_ focused. Because that is what she is. Althea Ivory. _Collected_.)

Because Althea isn't supposed to be so _affected_. What is the Eleven rat more than a corpse; a creature; a denizen of hell, really? That was where she _belonged._ Just as where the rest of the Districts belonged. They were nothing but _stepping stones._ That's what they _are._ That's what they all are _._

( _Stepping stones, love,_ Kani had said, as the rivers rushed by, as she brushed the long locks of Althea's hair, curled them by her ear, whispered, so quiet, _they're only stepping stones, love. That's all you need to know about the Districts. That is all you need to think of them._ )

That's all she needs to know. And yet the queasiness remains in her stomach, and she wants to _exterminate_ it, and—

(And those voices back at home expound in her _mind_. Their sneers; her father's disapproving eyes; her mother's concentrated scoff. You're so _weak,_ Althea Ivory, you're so _unable_. You're so _pathetic,_ so _useless…_ )

"Althea?"

Althea's throat constricts. Her stomach plunges. She is enclosed in ice.

Because Rhodos McNamara is the last person she needs to hear from now.

"Hey," Rhodos says. "Are you okay?"

(He is okay. Her District Partner— too _attentive,_ too _caring_ , is _okay._ After the murder of one. And she is sick, she is _queasy,_ she is—)

(Weak. Useless. Unable.)

"I'm—I'm fine," Althea mutters, and she glares at him. "And save it, Rhodos. You won't understand."

Rhodos recoils, slightly; hurt slathering his eyes.

"I—" he falters. There's conflict in his countenance: like he's torn between talking to her or retreating.

Althea locks her eyes upon him. She keeps them _cold,_ keeps _herself_ cold. Because she can't _expose herself—_ she'd already _exposed_ too much of herself. She'd spoken about _Kani,_ and he knows _enough_ already, and she's so _vulnerable,_ she can't be more vulnerable—

Rhodos drops his eyes, murmurs a quiet apology, and treks away from her.

(No.)

 _Better_. She can't seem _weak_ to him. Because Rhodos McNamara is the weakest here—he is _pathetic,_ so _eager to please,_ desiring so much _validation—_ and even he did not _flinch_ when he killed a child.

Even _he_ managed to kill. Without a second thought. And she?

Her _mind_ went rampant. Her _body_ went rampant. Her reaction was _visceral—_ too visceral. When _stepping stones_ were all they should be _._

(And if she were weaker than him, then what would that mean of her?)

Althea Ivory cannot be weak in the Arena. Not when she is here to prove her strength. Not when she is here to show her District she is _able._ Not when she is here to make them _understand._ To make them _see_ her for who she is.

(She cannot be anything other than _strong_ here.)

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

She isn't sure how to feel, after the Bloodbath.

(That Bloodbath. She'd stood amid the _frenzy_ of it all, confused like a _deer._ She'd gazed upon the _rest,_ as they scattered and ran, the muted patters of feet upon the golden biome. And Hera Dalenka had _watched,_ and _listened,_ and she... hadn't killed any.)

Hera remembers how Dior Marini had looked at her. When they were counting their kills. That surprise which had rested upon her coldly-impassive face, when Hera had uttered her words. _I didn't get any._ And then those narrowed-eyes, like a hawk taking stock of prey.

_I thought you were better._

_I thought you could get at least one._

_I thought you could_ _**function** _ _, Hera Dalenka._

(And she… couldn't. Not _then,_ because she was still so much in that stupor. But…)

She remembers why she is here, now.

She is here to win _._ That is what Hera Dalenka is here for. It's for her own _good_ , her parents had said to her, as her mother dressed her up and her father picked which weapon she was to train with. She is here for her _parents,_ she's here to make them _proud_ of her.

To show them that they had a _winner_.

(Not a drug addict of a daughter.)

And she _can._ Win. Because she is okay, now. There are no more drugs that can haunt her here. She is _sober._ She is _stable._ She is _okay._

(Hera Dalenka is always _okay._ )

(... only just _okay_.)

… Hera excels, of course. She is amongst the best of the best. She is brilliant. She is intelligent. That is all her, of course. But it is all so...

Hollow.

(Because upon her face is a modulated half-smile, a constricted poise, a mask plastered upon her countenance. Upon her body's knives and spears chosen by her father. Upon her body's a corset dress and upon her feet's high-heeled shoes and upon her ears' heavy crystal earrings picked by her mother. Upon her head is the crown that they've plucked upon her forehead. Because Hera Dalenka is not a person, not really. Hera Dalenka is _made._ )

(And Hera Dalenka isn't anything, not really.)

But her drugs change that. They _morph_ her. They take her up to the high heavens and… she's _better_.

(In training, as she slashes a sword through dummies and _winds_ come of her blades. As she _fights_ , adrenaline pumping in her _veins_ , that seizure of drugs and dust churning underneath her skin. As she ascends up the walls, _wild,_ like an animal swinging up a cliff.)

She's always _better_ , then. And it's not _good_ for her, and she's _without_ it now, and…

(What does that make her, here, now?)

Hera sees Kiernan, by the side of the Cornucopia. There is a glower that paints his face, and he's so _small,_ so _secluded,_ amid the boxes of supplies. He's trying to _hide_.

(And Hera Dalenka knows why. She'd seen him, at the Bloodbath. Kicked down by Eight. Taunted. Made to feel so… unable. So… voiceless.)

And she wants to _talk_ to him. Because seeing him _there_ twinges her heart, and she feels so… so _horrible_ for him.

(And there is something that resonates with her too. Something about being so… so not-in-control, so _tempered_ , so _subjected_ to the whims of the world, that she understands _._ )

_Are you okay?_

_I hope you're feeling better._

_I'm sorry about… the Bloodbath._

But she remembers how he had looked at her in the train-rides— _so angry, so pained, so terrified_ —and Hera Dalenka finds herself voiceless.

(And is that is not her always?)

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

She is, by all intents and purposes… _satisfied_ , after the Bloodbath.

Seven dead. Six by the Careers.

(One by an _Outer_ _District_.)

And Dior Marini is the indisputable leader of the pack.

Chrys has been nullified. He'll die, in a few days: _exsanguination_ is never a pretty death, but it makes sense. And besides: Dior was never one for _flair_. She'll let Chrys Gerhart die a quiet death. One more down; that would help her _survival._

(One more out of the way until her _victory._ Fifteen more dead until she can tell herself that Mattie's death was not in vain. Until she is able to look back at her parents in the eyes and tell them that she had avenged her _sister_. Until she is deserving of returning home again.)

Fifteen more dead.

 _(Eight girl_ amid them.)

Dior soothes her District Partner's escape stay in her mind. But she forces herself to calm down. This is merely her first day in the Arena. She has time to enact her revenge.

 _(_ And the 53rd Games resounds in her mind; flashes of viridescent-green, maniacal noises of gnashing teeth, flesh peeled-apart by a silver string. _Like a little_ _ **animal,**_ _Mattie Marini! You've got nowhere to hide!)_

 _No_.

Dior grits her teeth. She waits for her anger to recede. So she gazes upon the pack, instead. Althea's eyes meet hers immediately.

(Judgemental. All-seeing. Oh, she _knows,_ probably.)

"What is it?" Dior snaps, a little too quickly.

Althea remains unfazed. She saunters up to Dior, cocks a head right back. "They've taken our supplies."

"What?"

Althea doesn't even take another look at Dior. She turns her eyes towards the crates in the Cornucopia. "I said what I said. I'd just checked the crates. We have much less than what we'd thought we had."

Their _supplies._ The _Outer_ _Districts,_ Dior realises, and it hits her _then._

Just the amount that'd surged into the Cornucopia.

(Just the amount that had slipped through the cracks.)

_District Three. District Six. District Five. District_ _**Eight** _ _. Ransacking the Cornucopia as they killed. Taking their weapons, their armour, their_ _**rations** _ _,_ _their_ _**supplies** _ _. All of_ _**them** _ _, and…_

There is a brittleness in her teeth when she next speaks. "All of them?"

Althea does not meet her eyes anymore. "Most."

"And who's fault is that?"

Dior's head turns sharply at the new voice. And Chrys Gerhart's lifting his head at her, from the supply boxes, like he's daring her to _speak_. Like he's _judging_ her, like he's daring her to _react_.

(And what he's saying'sin her head already. _I saw how you reacted to the Eights. Saw how you failed. Again. And again. And again. Would we be in this shithole of a situation if you'd just_ _ **killed**_ _them, like you_ _ **should've**_ _, Dior? You can't even get your own fucking_ _ **revenge**_ _._ _ **Your fault.**_ )

And _anger_ tears through her skin, _indignance_ stokes her stomach, _rage_ boils through her body. _They were supposed to_ _ **die,**_ _I was gonna_ _ **kill them,**_ _fucking hell, for Mattie, I was gonna_ _ **kill them for Mattie**_ _, Eight'll suffocate at the end of my blade, she'll die, she'll_ _ **suffocate**_ _—_

"And what were you doing?" Dior says, lifting her eyes to meet Chrys's. She lets her eyes wander over to half of the arm he has left; now bound in tourniquet and tape.

_Too busy getting an arm sawed off, weren't you?_

Chrys's eyes flare. And she looks at him, tilts her head, lets the simmering anger in her stomach seethe. Dior Marini dares Chrys Gerhart to _protest._ She is rational, of course. But she never said that she wouldn't be a little _provocative_.

And she takes the moment to look around the pack, just to see _who dares._

And of _course_ it's Rhodos McNamara's eyes that dart so wildly between them, so hopelessly _lost,_ like he wants to _resolve_ their situation somehow. To be some sort of _meditator,_ but so torn-in-between—that people-pleaser that's in a conundrum for whoever he tries to reassure would ignite the anger of the _other_. How pathetic.

"Hey, let's… uh, can we…" He falters. Dior cocks her head towards him. Of _course:_ what's he to say to them? To _calm down?_ To _leave this for another day?_ To _settle this?_

"... so some of our supplies are gone," Rhodos says, and swallows. "But we don't have to… blame someone for it."

Dior raises her eyebrows in a challenge. _And do I_ _ **not**_ _have to blame someone for it, Rhodos McNamara?_

He averts her gaze. "You're both strong. Very strong. Chrys, you're amazing with a machete. Dior, I've seen your _aim—_ " he swallows, as her eyes flare. "—you're _really_ good at it. We can get them back in no time, I bet."

He looks between them, _pleading._ And Dior scoffs at his stupidity. Not only is Chrys _scoffing_ , but she is unamused. But his desire to please, whilst in parts pathetic, is useful. She files it in the back of her mind.

"That's a good idea, Rhodos," Dior says, a little too sweetly between her teeth. "You know, I could _really_ use a hunt."

Rhodos's eyes immediately widen, but he schools his expression.

(Pathetic. Because, of course—that wasn't the _answer_ he was looking for, was it, now?)

There's a scoff that sounds. Dior's eyes rivet to meet Althea Ivory's. There's a certain defensiveness in Althea's eyes. Dior raises her eyebrows, licking her lips. _Come on, speak up for your District Partner._

"The lost supplies are nothing important." Althea states. "Electrical supplies. Useful if the pack had a recruited Three—useless if not. A select few knives. Rations. They are significant, but they are supplies that we can make up with sponsors."

Althea Ivory. _Defending_ her District Partner. It's almost funny to Dior. Because it's almost like that cold, calculated, composed _girl from Four_ doesn't _want_ to hunt the rest of the tributes down _._

Dior cocks her head at Althea. "Perhaps. But you're missing the _point_ , Althea Ivory. Do you think I'll just let them wrong us?"

_Do you think I'll just let them wrong_ _**me?** _

"Do you think we should let them raid our Cornucopia without _comeuppance?_ Do you think I'll let them walk over _us_ , like we're _ants_? Do you think I'll let them _play_ at _Career?_ "

(Knives down her skin, cutting her up like she's just a _creature_ , skinning her _alive_. Laughing, as she'd _screamed,_ like the wretched squeals of a pig. _Who's there to save you now? Don't cry for your_ _ **mommy**_ _, Mattie. Don't cry for your_ _ **sister**_ _. Don't even try. You_ _ **chose**_ _this._ )

"I don't _care_ if you do _think_ that they should just _go_."Dior scoffs, and her eyes move between Althea and Rhodos and Chrys and Kiernan and Hera. All who do not meet her eyes.

_But your word doesn't matter to me._

There's disdain that pricks her lips; there's _rage,_ barely concealed, that roils in her skin, threatening to _overspill_.

"But I won't stand for that. Do you think I'll let them think they're better than _us_?"

_(Those animals had no_ _**right** _ _to kill Mattie Marini.)_

Dior tilts her head at the rest of the pack. "We'll hunt at dawn. Does anyone have any more _grievances_?"

It is only the sounds of crickets that take the night, after that.


	17. The Victims and The Talons - Day 2.

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

Dior Marini wants the Eights dead.

That's what he _hears_ every single time Dior opens her mouth. It's always those same words; _irritating_ beyond belief, _frustrating_ beyond belief, _ridiculous_ beyond belief.

" _Our hunt will commence, now." "It is only fair that they_ _ **die**_ _." "Do you_ _ **dare**_ _protest against what I say?" "Are you_ _ **staring**_ _at me?"_

Sure—he'd exaggerated some of that. But all of it is propounded and expounded; and Dior Marini so _extreme_ in her hate, so _annoying_ in its excess. It's so stupid, really, her excessive obsession over the Eights.

(Because _he_ could care less about the _Eights._ They've done jack-shit to him. Chrys Gerhart _understands_ revenge, of course. Even the _thought_ of Six girl froths a rage in his veins; her fucking _decision_ to _chop_ his arm off's left him _writhing_ in pain for the night, left a phantom _ache_ in his limbs, left him _screaming_ and left him biting his _other_ arm to stop his yells from making the cameras.)

If there is one thing that he agrees with Dior with, it is this: the Outer Districts do not deserve to _believe_ that they are better than the Careers. Their audacity is ridiculous. Their desires are ridiculous. Their cries are _foolish._

And Chrys wants Six girl to suffer _._ Eye for an eye, arm for an arm; it's simple, really; it's all he wants to do. He wants to kill her, maul her, _break_ her; their battle hadn't finished, it'd _never_ finished, she didn't know what she _started_ when she decided to break his arm apart. Their fight is _now._

Chrys Gerhart does not have time. Try as he might, as _hard_ as he might, his tourniquet is _not enough._ His stump's opening. He's _leaking_ blood, he knows. He's bleeding out. He'll be _exsanguinated._

(And what a pretty death would that be? Just like in the 54th Games; that Victor, who mutilated themselves after the Games were over. Blood running down her arms, spilling out a river from the banks of skin, sinking a sea upon the carpeted grounds of her own home to touch the feet of the paparazzi. That flashed shots that splattered the news for years to come.)

(Suicide never escapes One.)

But Chrys Gerhart will not _die_ like that. He's not somebody that'll kneel down and _fold_. The _Games_ are his destiny. His _victory's_ what he needs. He's not suicidal; he never was, and he won't be. He won't _wait_ to die.

(He does not have time.)

Chrys Gerhart will _survive._ He has to—for his family. For their lives made better.

(He tries not to think about how Ten or Seven died.)

He has to. He's the chosen Career. It's his _destiny._

(It is what his mother had told him on her death-bed. _Chrys, please,_ Metella had whispered, her eyes shimmering in tears, of all things unsaid, of all she wished to say. _Fight for us. For the family. Enter the Academy,_ and thirteen-year-old Chrys had listened, eyes wide but enraptured, and in her final breaths she'd choked out, _please.. For… for us._ )

And that is what he will do; he'll _live_. He'll fight for them. He'll fight for Emilio's smile; he'll fight for Melissa's career as a fashion designer; he'll fight for Julius's books that he reads after-school and he'll fight for Laurel's and Juno's reconciliation. He'll fight to get back to _Nemesis_ cause then he'll have enough courage to tell her that he likes her and he'll fight for his father's retirement. He'll _fight._

Chrys Gerhart will not die.

(It is not the families of Ten, or Seven, or Eight, or Six, or any-fucking- _District_ that he needs to care about. It is _his._ It is _his_ goal that matters now. His family. His life. Their survival.)

His eyes wander to Dior Marini. Still watching them all, still holding up her chin and still letting orders pour from her lips; still preparing the weapons needed for their hunt upon the _Eights,_ bolas and a sword and the dozen other weapons that they _won't_ have until they get them back.

Because of their _audacity_.

(And _audacity_ brings him back to the Bloodbath, _audacity_ brings him back to the Outer District's charge at the golden horn, _audacity_ brings him back to his arm torn upon grass and Six girl, cocking her head, a snarl entwining her lips and so much _righteousness_ in her eyes. Her _audacity:_ to _judge_ him, to _look_ down on him, to _stare_ at him, like she's got the moral-upper hand _somehow._ )

Six girl. Who dared to chop off his arm like he were nothing more than lamb to the slaughter.

And _oh,_ he knows where to begin.

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

It is almost midday when Rhodos speaks for the first time in the day.

"There they are."

And they are, there—in the distance. Two tributes. Struggling to get a move on. Backpacks slung over their shoulders. As they swayed, and their supplies weighed upon them.

(Their _Cornucopia_ supplies.)

Althea passes a small glance at her District Partner. He'd been quiet, for the better part of the day - even as Dior passed plans, even as they'd passed weapons, even as they'd passed remarks and customary pleasantries.

(Even as he looked at _her,_ brows creased and biting his lip, and she'd _known_ that Rhodos was thinking about last night again when she'd snapped at him and he'd recoiled with pain in his eyes. Althea stiffened, every time, but Rhodos would always look away before she could say anything.)

(And her mouth would dry whenever she _attempted_ to think of words to say; an _apology?_ Or to ignore him—to pretend like she hadn't said anything at all?)

Althea refocuses, instead. Now—Rhodos's eyes are fixated on the pair. He's _tired_. But there's also worry that seems to press upon them; even if they only manifest in the way he grips his knuckles, and the way which he looks at the tributes, eyes so faraway, wretched in conflict, so different from…

Dior Marini. Whose eyes flicker with almost a thirst— a rage, really. Her fingers tighten on her sword, the other her bolas. So ready to _kill._ And so, Althea Ivory clears her throat and says the words before Dior can get ahead of herself.

"It's not the Eights."

A certain surprise flicks in Dior Marini's eyes. But Althea Ivory simply cocks her head, lifts her chin towards the tributes trudging across the wearied-golden fields, dimming in the autumnal afternoon.

It is the Fives.

(Althea recognises them. Because the boy from Five's strong like an ox, built like a machine, even at a tender fifteen. He would've been made for the Career Districts, really, if he were not an outlier. And Eight… boy? - _are they even a boy?_ \- is a _child, thirteen,_ probably, not nearly anything like what Five looks like.)

And Five boy's helping Five girl. He holds her by her hand. For her legs dragging behind. Like the bone's detached from her joints. But it still lives in the bag of her flesh.

There is a quick breath taken from the other end of the pack. And it's Kiernan Alcraiz's _voice,_ she recognises.

Immediately, Dior's eyes are upon him - half a _glare_. Even though Kiernan only rouses the air with his breath and rustles the slow-falling leaves that descend.

Kiernan flashes a glare at Dior Marini, too, until it is smoothed over with barely-contained neutrality upon his face after Chrys Gerhart tugs his arm. And she sees Dior's rage flare up in her eyes again, and then she sees agony wreathe Hera Dalenka's face, and Althea has to resist a grit of her teeth, a frustrated sigh.

Their pack is unstable.

And Althea Ivory does not mind. The sooner they destruct, the better for her; more bodies down, more bodies dead, more _stepping stones_ to the crown. She won't be caught in the middle of the fray; not when there are rivalries and divisions already-present. There is nobody she cares about that will die.

(That is what her rationality tells her at least. But then she thinks of her District Partner's gaze, so _heartbroken,_ and then Althea Ivory is not quite sure how to feel, either.)

"Stop looking at him like that," Chrys Gerhart mutters, and his eyes are straight upon Dior's. "Do you _want_ them to get away?"

Dior's sneer upticks by her lips, but her eyes are simmering with aggravation. And Althea holds her breath—because Dior grips her sword so tight her knuckles go white, and it looks like she's about to _kill him_ , right there and then. A moment, and another, and then some more; and then Dior's anger tides over, and she's swathed with coolness again.

"No, I _don't._ What are you waiting for?"

They move upon the Fives. Crawl closer. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. They are like wolves; haunched, stealthy, _unbidden_. Drawing closer. They are like hounds; environing. Ready to raze and maul and to steal them into the night.

(Althea stuffs down what she feels in her stomach.)

Instead, she focuses on the Fives. And they are wary. Their eyes dart, their fingers clutch one another's closer, like they've felt a shift in the air.

And then Five girl's eyes land upon Althea's.

She screams. She tugs at her companion, points a shaking finger at _her,_ at the _Career pack,_ yells incoherencies to her District Partner. And Althea reaches for her halberd, stuffs down the anger in her veins, she should be _reacting_ by now—

Dior gets there first.

The _pack leader_ takes the bolas, twirls them effortlessly, and it's less than a second when it wraps over Five girl's legs, and less than another when she _advances_ far enough and her blade's stabbed into Five girl's body.

Dior murders. And there is nothing that wrongs Althea Ivory's stomach. Her stomach doesn't roil, there is no _chaos_ that reigns in her gut and there's _nothing_ bubbling up from her lungs _no_ Althea Ivory does not feel _anything_ at all-

Five girl screams, and she shrieks, and she writhes like a struggling animal. A struggling animal that spews fountains of red from her gut.

And she's choking, and she's dying, already. "I—I'm sorry," she whispers, but even then her hands don't go where to her wound bleeds. Instead, her fingers press to a dark curved mark upon her wrist— _a mark, a talon._

Althea Ivory's eyes are wide as the cannon bursts forth into the skies.

Dior doesn't spare the dead a second glance. Her chin's tilted up and there's a sniff of disdain upon her lips as her eyes catch Hera Dalenka. Staring at the dead, still so _stunned._

And Dior's eyes lock onto Althea's. And something constricts in Althea's throat.

(Because there is a request that lingers in Dior's eyes, razor-sharp. A behest from her mind. She looks.)

_No._

Five boy's traumatised. He's _wild,_ glancing to-and-fro from his District Partner and _them,_ and Althea's _staring_ at the scene, even as he screams, and then it's like a fire lights his skin because then his feet patter across the waning-golden fields, and—

And Dior's _waiting._ Her head's lifted, her eyes are riveted.

But it's not on _Five boy_.

And their prey continues to run. Descending into the golden wreathes in the darkness.

Dior cocks her head at Althea.

 _Go on._ Is on Dior Marini's eyes. _Won't you._

(Prove yourself.)

(Show me what you can do.)

(Don't tell me you're _weak._ )

(Don't tell me you're _impotent_.)

(Aren't you just?)

Althea's fingers tense on her spear. She _throws_.

Her aim is straight.

It impales his chest.

He goes down.

Bubbling in red.

He dies.

It is quick.

It is immediate.

It shorts her breaths.

It breeds too many feelings in her chest.

"Good," and Dior's lips are pursued, they're pushed-up high; they enshrine the corner of her smile, as she watches the Five boy gargle on dirt. Her eyes meet Althea's; and that prick by the corner of her lips lift. "Good."

(There is a golden laurel upon her head. _Althea Ivory._ One more _dead._ )

(She feels awful about herself.)

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

They had not done anything _of merit_.

Her pack is useless. They killed the Fives. But they are not _Eight._ They are not the animals she wanted dead.

(And it were her _vision_ that she had imposed upon their minds; it was her _vision_ that she wanted them to see, that she _wrangled_ them into seeing. For she was the _leader,_ here.)

They did not get the _Eights._ And if Dior tempers the fire that razes her veins, even then—she might begin to forgive them. But that did not make her pack any less pathetic.

Chrys Gerhart. Armless. And pathetic.

Kiernan Alcraiz. A _child_ in the pack _._ Worthless. Even more than his _sister,_ really—what a _showing,_ last year.

Hera Dalenka. _High._ What's the Two girl worth to her if she's in _withdrawal?_

Rhodos McNamara. Not so much different from a dog, really. So eager to please. At least he'll be _useful,_ occasionally _._

Althea. Faltering. _Able,_ maybe, but those _moments_ of hesitation were not acceptable in the Games.

And so the words slip from Dior's lips; involuntary, sardonic, far _colder_ than she had intended.

"What is wrong with all of you?"

Eyes snap towards her. Shock—surprise— _curiosity_ meet her eyes. Chrys's eyes are particularly resentful upon hers. Hera's are particularly _hurt._

She lifts her chin to Chrys, first. "What have you done in our hunt?"

"Give me a break," he scoffs. And Dior rolls her eyes; _breaks_ were not for the Arena. _Breaks_ were not for anybody here. _Breaks_ were not for the Games.

 _Do you_ _ **want**_ _to die?_ flits upon her lips, till she takes a purposeful look at his arm; _oh, wait._

Chrys does not retaliate. And so she turns her eyes towards Hera, then. So… pathetic.

"Oh, Hera," she mutters. And her words come out soft, but she lets the saturation of ice tip upon her lips. "Where _were_ you, today? Or yesterday, for the matter, too. Or before launch even; and the day before that. Where is your _mind?_ Still in the clouds? Still ebbing-away?"

Kiernan Alcraiz stiffens. Dior raises an eyebrow at the boy. Had she tugged on a _nerve?_

And then it _hits_ her, then, for weren't the definition of _clouds_ Maeve _Alcraiz_? No _wonder_ he was so affected.

(And it's so _obvious_ how he tries to push down his feelings; so obvious how he tries to push up a facade of _neutrality,_ of _carelessness._ But his _hurt_ and _pain_ and _anger_ overflow his eyes.)

Dior's eyes rivet on the boy, then.

Kiernan Alcraiz. That Two boy grates on her especially. Not only is he _useless,_ but he's irritating. So whiny; _brooding,_ acting far larger than his age _._ Not to mention his _sister._ The Alcraiz family was incomprehensible in themselves.

Dior Marini had never wanted Kiernan in the pack; but Career tradition had prevailed, lingering upon their decisions like a penetrating phantom. And as much as Dior _disliked_ the boy, she would not be the first to destroy _precedence._

Especially when his death was practically inevitable in these Games.

"It seems to be a commonality, for the Twos," Dior says, and she lets her eyes stay upon him, then. "So _inhibited_ in their freedom. So stupid in their excess. So languid in their deaths."

Her eyes stay upon him, and Dior dares Kiernan Alcraiz to speak.

"She's dead," he says, simply, and his throat is thick with stiffness. Oh, how _hard_ he tries to control himself. "That's what you _wanted,_ right, Dior? They're dead. _Fives_ are dead. _Five_ _girl's_ dead. Five boy's dead. Isn't that enough?"

His emotions. Thick in his throat. How pathetic.

"Do they look like the Eights to you?" Dior scoffs in reply. "Those that we're trying to hunt for aren't _dead._ "

His scoff is loud, and harsh in her ears. "... They'll die anyway, won't they?"

Dior controls her breaths. _That's not the_ _ **point**_ _,_ she wants to snarl _, because it_ _ **isn't**_ _, it was never about_ _ **dying anyway**_ _. They'll perish, eventually, but for their deaths to be_ anything _but_ by her hands _? Strangulation, like they intended- like what they'd_ done _to her sister._

God, how _much_ she'd like to see Kiernan dead. Body strewn upon the golden leaves, dying, _dying_ in so much red—

(Mattie's screams; strangulation her end; porous red leaking from porous skin. Dross left of her life; gargling, choking, _dying._ )

Dior's breath catches in her throat.

(And for a moment she's not staring at _Kiernan Alcraiz,_ angry, _mad,_ but _Mattie Marini,_ still a _child,_ always a _child_ in her eyes, never old enough for the Games-)

"Perhaps they _will_ die anyway," and her eyes turn right on Kiernan _Alcraiz_ (he's _Alcraiz,_ he isn't _Mattie,_ he's somebody that she _doesn't know,_ he's someone that'll end up in the _dirt six-feet under,_ he's _dead_ _not a child not anything really—_ _)_

"But have we ever _won_ by staying stagnant? By not _hunting_ as a pack?"

(She knows she speaks in a fallacy; she knows her words are underpinned with untruth; she knows that she does not say what she means. But to think about Mattie, to think that she didn't matter - Dior Marini cannot do that.)

"You understand me, then," she says. And her eyes wander over the pack. Hera does not meet her eyes. Chrys's countenance shines even darker. Althea's focused on her halberd. Rhodos is the only one who dares to meet her eyes, but even then they're fleeting, _shy._

And although she speaks on the behalf of the Careers - it is never for them.

(It was never for them.)

Her heart tightens. Her resolve tightens. She'll have to win, then—like what she'd promised in the interview, that's why: she'll do it for Mattie.

(It's always only for Mattie.)


	18. The Ruminative and The Reluctant - Night 2.

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

Rhodos doesn't know how to feel about the dead.

He'd approached the corpse of both Fives, after the pack had relished in their victory and drifted away from the dead. And their _mark_ stared back at him, and his breaths shuttered in his lungs because—

It was so clear. It was _plain_ as day. A _mark,_ a black one, the half-crescent shape that decorated Nine girl's wrist not even twenty-four hours ago, was upon the Fives's skins, too. And their hands _rotted,_ their _bodies_ smelt of _death,_ and he'd choked on the thick-set bile pruning his throat and tried not to _think_.

(Because he _can't_ think. Not right now, at least—he's not _ready_ to think still. But his thoughts _run rampant,_ because he'd seen the same mark on Nine, and then now on the Fives, and it's so _familiar_ and yet he can't _place it,_ not _really_ — _what could it mean?_ )

It nags at him. So, instead, he refocuses. _Not now_. Right now…

Rhodos spares a small look to his District Partner. Even if… he doesn't need to look at his District Partner to know that she _isn't_ _okay_.

(She hasn't been. Not since the first day. And he'd tried to comfort her, there, but she'd… pushed him away. Guilt still gnaws at him: because he _shouldn't've_ approached her then, he _should've_ been more aware.)

… she's still not okay, now. And Rhodos knows why.

It's the kills. He'd seen how she'd _looked_ after she'd come back from the Bloodbath: too constricted, too weary, too _cold._ Althea Ivory is many things: _frigidity_ is one of them. But even he knows… _excessive_ frigidity is not. That's only when she wants to hide. He _knows_ , because that was what she was to him, in their first meetings in the Victor parties of the 51st and 52nd Games, in their first few days in the trains, in their days in training. So cold; unforthcoming; focused.

(Till that face of her had eroded. And even if things were so fleeting - like the crest of the waves and the breeze of the forests - he still _learnt_ about her.)

Althea is cool, now - but not collected. She is cold. And Rhodos wants to comfort her - he wants to tell her that _it's okay._

(Because he knows this: Althea Ivory is so _fixated_ upon appearing _strong._ Every time he'd complimented her _strength,_ or her _ability_ , there had always been a flicker of something in her eyes - of _affirmation,_ of _gladness,_ despite how much she'd tried to hide.)

And Althea Ivory _was_ strong; there was no lie about that. He'd seen how she _fights._

(But sometimes, he thinks that she doesn't see what _he_ sees.)

They're leaving back to camp. Dusk settles in the horizon. But the golden forests and the golden boughs make an ardent fire alive upon the lands—blazing conflagration- _amber,_ so _destructive_ , so _beautiful_...

And he's lingering in the back of the pack, as Dior leads, and Chrys staggers behind, and Kiernan looks at him, and Hera spares a few worrying glances at the child, and he falls in line next to Althea Ivory—and he notices the way her fingers shake, notices the way she grips them again, too-tight.

(And he knows that she would've despised him seeing that.)

Rhodos inhales a quiet breath. And he knows that she doesn't _want_ him to speak, that she'd rather keep herself secluded, would rather keep all her secrets and her world and her anxieties to herself—but he also knows when she's shaking, and he also knows when she's _not okay,_ and he sees how she needs to speak, even if she wouldn't let _herself_.

And so he keeps his voice steady; keeps his voice easy. Even though _rejection_ lingers in his mind (and he _winces_ still, because it _hurts_ in his chest, _rejection_ is the _last_ thing he _wants_ ) - Rhodos forces his worries away, and murmurs, "Althea?"

"What is it?"

And her tone is clipped— but it is not cold. Rhodos exhales a breath.

"I just… " he bites his lip. He doesn't know what to _say,_ not really - because if he mentions the _Fives_ then she'll see him point out her _weaknesses,_ if he mentions that he's just trying to _check on her_ she'll be even more wary.

Rhodos McNamara does not know what to say. And so— he goes with the truth.

"I didn't actually kill... Nine girl," he says. And his words are _halting,_ pausing, and Rhodos almost _cringes_ while saying it too, and he averts his eyes to her reaction. Because surely she'll look down on him, surely—

"... what?"

Nothing but surprise tinges her voice. And Rhodos hesitates, but swallows.

"I… yeah," he says. "I didn't kill Nine. She… killed herself."

It stews between them.

"And… what am I supposed to make of that?"

Pain sinks in his heart. _Discomfort_ conquers him entirely. He can feel her _antagonism_ seeping from her figure, but…

Instead of recoiling, Rhodos consciously decides to meet her eyes.

What he doesn't expect to see is for them to not meet _his._ Althea has her arms crossed, like she's _cold,_ and she's pressing her lips together, and she looks so _different_ , so much like she's trying not to be _vulnerable._

Something unusual twinges his heart.

"I don't know," Rhodos says, quietly. "What do you want to make of it?"

It is almost forever until Althea clears her throat. Until she lets out a pensive sigh.

"If this is about the Fives, Rhodos… don't bother."

"Why?"

He doesn't really expect an answer, not really. But Althea's eyes flick to Rhodos's. There's a twinge of a bitter smile on her lips.

"I know I'm weak," she says, and there's so much _coldness_ in her voice, so much _bitterness_ that overwhelms it all.

"And now the whole world knows it, too. You don't have to _remind_ me."

Her words are _jagged,_ they're so _sharp,_ and Rhodos feels something jump in his chest.

"I'm not," he says. "I don't think you're weak. I brought up the Nines, because… I wanted you to know. That… I might not be feeling what you're feeling, but… I saw her die. I didn't kill her… and I don't think I _could've,_ really. If it came down to it."

That _admission_ hangs between them.

Rhodos exhales. "... and I felt so helpless. I think—I think my fingers were shaking. And when I close my eyes I see _her,_ dead...even though I didn't do a _single_ thing."

It's curiosity that ignites Althea's eyes, now.

Rhodos closes his eyes. He takes the leap. "... so I might not understand how you feel. But I can… relate, maybe. And I just wanted to say. It isn't weakness. Not really. It isn't weakness to be _affected_. It isn't weakness to _feel_ things. And it doesn't matter if the world sees it, not really. It _shouldn't._ "

Althea doesn't say anything. And he wants to wither, because he's made a _mistake,_ hasn't he? He's pointed out her _weakness_ and that's _it,_ they're _done. They won't be friends anymore—were they ever really friends at all?_

"Thank you." Althea says, quietly.

Rhodos's eyes snap up towards her. And gratification balloons his heart.

(They trudge back to the camp together, in quietude. But Rhodos — Rhodos hasn't felt better about himself.)

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

"I'm sorry about... _that_ ," Chrys grits out, beside Kiernan, as he tightens his tourniquet. After they're in the Cornucopia again and painted in darkness once more.

It doesn't take a brain to know what Chrys is referring to. To _Dior —_ to her _outburst._

Kiernan's breath _constricts._

Because Chrys Gerhart is sympathetic _. Despite all._ Despite his bleeding out (... which he seems to be taking remarkably well…) and _despite_ Dior and _dying_ and the rest…

And Kiernan's _wary_ , of course... who _wouldn't_ be? They're in a _death game._ They're here to _die_ and _fight_ and for only one survivor to emerge amid it all.

But there's something about Chrys that means Kiernan can… maybe not quite _trust_ , but _believe_ in, at least.

(… because it's so much like _her_. When she would take a few flitting looks at him, and a _smile_ would spread across her lips, as smooth as butter over bread and with the strength of the _sun_ entwined within _._ An arm slung over his shoulders, an easy pull folding him into her chest, a small grin that told him of how she _lov—_ cherished him. _)_

It had been… long, 'course, since then. Kiernan doesn't even _remember_ when that memory had been. All he remembers is Maeve's _distance;_ her late-night door slams, the fleeting sound of her hazy, stumbling footsteps, the way she'd drop back in bed in the midnight-darkness, only to be gone when he'd woken up again.

And the way Chrys looks at him makes _fear_ in his chest. But an odd _warmth_ sticks to his heart. Even as he tries to squash that feeling down. Even as he tries to _pretend_ that it isn't there.

A cry of pain draws Kiernan away from his reverie. Chrys is _grimacing,_ as blood trickles down what's left of his arm, and his eyes are _distant_.

"Are—are you okay? Is there something I can… do?"

Chrys shakes his head. "It's fine. But... seriously, don't worry about… her. It's just Dior being... _Dior._ "

"Being a fucking asshole?"

Despite his pain, Chrys raises his eyebrows at him. As if he hadn't heard _Kiernan_ swear a dozen times before already. It's almost funny. Maybe. But Kiernan really isn't in the mood for laughing.

(Not really. Not after _that. Weak, useless, so…_ _ **impotent,**_ _like he didn't fucking know it already. Like Dior really_ _ **needed**_ _to shove it all back into his face. Like he didn't know that he brought absolutely nothing to the pack, like he didn't know that he was brought along because of tradition and nothing else, like he didn't know he was gonna_ _ **die**_ _anyway already, that his fate wasn't already_ _ **determined**_ _when he raised his hand and_ _ **volunteered**_ _, pressed down by the Capitol's_ _ **eyes**_ _._ )

Kiernan scoffs then. "It's whatever," he mumbles. Even though he knows it's the _farthest_ thing from _whatever_. Cause his _life's_ on the line, it's his _life_ that they're talking _about_ , like—

(Like his life ever really mattered, at all?)

"It's… " Chrys presses his lips together. "... it's not, _whatever_ , Kiernan. Can kind of see it in your face."

His face burns. Embarrassment, _frustration, feelings_ bubble within him. Kiernan is exposed. He gets up from his crate, despite Chrys's protests— lets out a _breath,_ he needs to _leave,_ he needs to _go, somewhere, somewhere else—_

"Wait!" — and Kiernan ignores Chrys's words, because it's so _obvious,_ isn't it? Just how weak he is? Just how _pathetic_ he is? Just how _stupid_ he is, just how _useless_ he is, just how _quick_ he'll die? Cause everything's on his _face,_ cause he _knows,_ and oh, Kiernan doesn't _know_ why they haven't thrown him out of the pack yet, why they haven't tossed him or called _anarchy_ , cause he's nothing of _value_ here—

(And it's so obvious by the way of Dior's eyes, and by the way in which she says _tradition._ He's not here for any fucking _merit_ of his own. He's here because Two's always in the pack and because they _know_ he'll be screwed otherwise, anyway, _might as well let him ride this out—_ )

"Look, Kiernan—" and Chrys grabs him by the _shoulder,_ with his intact hand _,_ and Kiernan doesn't know why he doesn't _wrestle_ Chrys off, right there and then— but then Chrys's eyes are on him and his eyes are _steady_ and his hand's warm and Kiernan almost flinches because it's been so long since somebody's touched him and—

"Kiernan. I'm thinking of leaving."

Kiernan's eyes widen. _W-what?_ almost spills from his lips, but then he controls himself, controls his surprise, controls his _feelings._ Chrys's hand drops away from Kiernan, finds his stump, grips it tighter.

"I _need_ to," he says, and Kiernan doesn't need to ask why.

(He doesn't need to look at Chrys's… wound, and his grimace, and his fixed gaze… to know.)

"Why do you want me?" he says, cautiously. "I'll just drag you down."

"That's a lie," Chrys retorts, half a pained scoff colouring his language. "I've seen you in training. You're _competent,_ Kiernan. And 'sides, I like your spunk. It'd be... nice to have you with me. It'll be less… lonely. If I'm being honest..." and there's a wistful sort of smile which teases by the corner of his lips. "You remind me of someone. I'd… like that."

Surprise—adrenaline—so many _feelings_ run through his veins. And Kiernan can't quite sift through them, _isn't_ sure how to sift through them.

"Think on it, will you?" Chrys tells him, and he gets up from his crate. Kiernan watches as Chrys staggers away, as a dozen more thoughts shoot through his mind, now.

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

Hera Dalenka is in the Games.

Hera Dalenka is in the _pack._

But she's not _there,_ in the Games, not really. Some part of her feels like she's at home, watching one of the Games ravage on-screen; she is _herself_ , yes, but she's a spectator. Hera is in her body and she is not. She is not really… herself.

(She is out of her body because she can't be _in_ her body. Because if she is, then she'll feel the cold too clearly. She'll feel the convulses of her skin and she'll feel the way ice drops into the pit of her stomach and she'll _feel too much_ and Hera Dalenka _cannot_ feel too much. She already feels enough.)

They're back in the Cornucopia. Night shrouds the world around them. No longer is the golden glow of the Arena; no, it is only _dark,_ and cold. Wind sheaves through her skin like cold metal jabs. Only a dark forest: and so empty. Her pack's at the mouth of the golden horn; and she's outside, watching, _shivering._

(Hera isn't quite sure what to think about the Games - no, she does _not want to_ know what she thinks about the Games. Because if she closes her eyes, and imagines herself seated at a couch, imagines a holographic screen and imagines her head riveted in place like a corkscrew. If she imagines. If she imagines the barbarity and the _voracity_ of the Careers and the insatiability of bloodlust and if she _imagines…_ )

Hera knows. She knows the _Games_ tear her soul apart, and knows the _Games_ roil her inside, and she knows the Games _break her heart._

(But she must _suppress,_ and _suppress,_ and _suppress_ — for Hera _cannot_ think. To think would be an _admission_. To think would _acknowledge_ her failings, to think would be looking up to her parents in their eyes and _confess, I'm not your perfect daughter, I'm not your perfect Career, I don't—I don't want to_ _ **win,**_ _I don't want to_ _ **make you proud,**_ _I don't want to be anything more than a_ _ **disappointment**_ _, a_ _ **failure**_ _, an_ _ **addict**_ _…_ )

To think would be an admission. And Hera cannot admit.

(Not her _contrit_. And she may try to be kind, she may try to be _compassionate,_ she may choose to extend an olive branch to Kiernan Alcraiz and she may stand there rooted when the dead come upon their parades and pretend she is not complicit in Dior's _crusades…_ but she still plays-act a _charade,_ does she not? Nothing absolves her of her volunteering. Her _choice_ from her own voice. Because _they_ wanted the best in the world, and the best in the world meant _champagne_ , meant money and _fame…)_

Dior does not like her. Hera knows that too well. Because she stood whilst the pack demolished the Fives. Because she was admonished whilst Althea was praised. Because she'd just watched as Dior and Althea took their kills by their gleaming blades and skinned their bodies alive. Because she'd just watched as Dior sneered and she remained voiceless in it all.

(And she is aware, too, of how Dior _sees_ her. For Hera Dalenka is _worthless, unimportant._ She is _disposable, she is useless_. Like the rest of Two is. _A girl wreathed in mist and a boy so pathetically incompetent. Echo of 55th, much?_ )

And she's plunged in despair. She should be _._ Plunged in pain. Plunged in self-hate.

But it is ephemeral. Barely a film round her body. She knows the things she should feel, and yet Hera Dalenka does not feel a thing.

And it is so much like— it is so much like—

(—like she is back at the party. A dozen legs pattering across, the pandemonium of people, overlaid by a haze of sound and clash and screams. Hera Dalenka is there and yet she is not. But the image is no longer made of snow.)

And it is this she remembers.

There were _explosions_ at the party.

(There were _insurgents_. Padded _feet,_ padded gear and padded armour. A galore of guns and knives. And they'd exploded stars of chaos across the world. Some _ran,_ and Hera was swept among the masses of feet, but she'd remembered _seeing_ them.)

And her feet were shaking, like an _earthquake_ rumbled underneath _._ Hera Dalenka never liked earthquakes; never liked anything that was _destabilising_ , _vertiginous…_

(... the drugs did enough already...)

There were _explosions_ at the party.

But it wasn't to make a statement. Not really.

(Because then they wouldn't've let her _run,_ they wouldn't've let her _go,_ they would've _rounded them up, stay,_ and they would've cocked their guns, cocked their heads, _this is an uprising, this is our fight, this is for the forgotten ones, this is for the_ _ **dead**_. And they would've pulled her hair, they would've dragged her out of the masses, they would've grinned ear-to-ear, for this was a _Career,_ they were about to _upend_ the Games, and they _could've,_ she'd seen their guns and their getup and their blades, she _knew_ what they could do.)

But they… didn't.

Hera isn't _sure_ what it was for. But judging by the way people scattered, and judging by the way people screamed, and judging by the way people ran… and judging by the way they'd just dropped in, judging by the way they'd just _intimidated,_ judging by the way they'd made explosions and earthquakes and disappeared…

… she could guess.

It was a _warning._ It was a _precursor_.

(Look at what we can _do_.)

(This isn't the _end._ )

_(We're only getting started.)_

_(Watch us.)_

Hera Dalenka's breaths grow sharp.

She's sober. That is what she knows. And although she's shaking, although her teeth's chattering and although she's _cold-turkey,_ she _knows_. The mist in her mind's dissolving, and…

There had been an explosion.

There had been _rebels._

She _remembers._

Hera stumbles back to them. To the Cornucopia's mouth.

"They're with us," she says, and the words are unbidden, they fall off her lips _,_ too-loud in the dark.

The pack's eyes snap towards her. She sees Dior Marini's eyes, narrow; she sees Rhodos McNamara's, too wide; she sees Althea Ivory's, cautious _;_ she sees Kiernan Alcraiz's, _wary_ ; she sees Chrys Gerhart's, _shaking_ in pain, only a gaunt jaw betraying his thoughts.

"The _rebels,_ " Hera says. And the entire pack looks at her, and she expects them to glance at her like she's mad, but they... don't.

"They're _here._ They all _are._ They're _with_ us."

Dior Marini raises her eyebrows. "Hera," she replies. "What… makes you say that?"

Hera lets out a quiet breath, and she looks between their eyes, because how does she _begin_ to explain? How does she _start,_ how does she tell them? And a part of her _wonders_ if she should tell them (should she?) - but it's too _late, now,_ because their eyes encroach her, and she feels far too _small_.

_(Voiceless?)_

And _desperation_ seizes in her heart. "They were at the _party,_ remember? And they're here now..."

Dior scoffs. "Nonsense. Rebels? _Here?_ What have you _made_ up in your head, Hera? It's not as if we were _given_ a message—"

"We _were_ given a message," Althea Ivory interrupts, and Dior stills. "Don't you remember? The _Head Gamemaker_ had told us herself. We're to kill the troublesome first. The dissenting first. The chaotic first. We're to _hunt._ We're to keep _the rebels down._ We're to show them. We have to finish the job they've given us. Wasn't that what our Head Gamemaker said?"

Dior seems _uncertain_ for a moment. Until she collects herself.

"Of course," she says, "That may be what the Head Gamemaker _ordains_. But that does not necessarily mean there is a fully-fledged, _organised_ _rebellion_ present _._ Certainly not any that can _upend_ the Games. Unless… someone wants to _confess_."

And Dior's eyes pass across every individual. Till they land on Rhodos, who instinctively glances away. Dior's eyebrows raise.

"The marks," Rhodos finally says, even though the words quaver on his throat. "On their _wrists…_ I'd seen it on Nine girl's. And on the Fives.I think that's their _signal…_ I think that's what bands them together. If they have it… then they're part of the rebellion. I don't know if it means anything, but—"

Dior's lips twist. "Thank you, Rhodos."

And Hera's throat _constricts,_ and her words _seize,_ and she—she can't speak anymore.

But the truth, the gravityof it all settles around them.

_There are_ _**rebels** _ _in the Games._

_There is_ _**rebellion.** _

And Hera Dalenka is _voiceless_ , and she feels so guilty for _speaking_ at all _._

* * *

**Head Gamemaker Elkavich.**

"Uh… Miss Elkavich... I think there's something you'd… want… to know."

Elkavich closes her eyes from the monitor of the Arena ahead of her. There's a swallow from behind. "We've found, that, uhm, there's… uh... interference."

She turns her eyes up to the withering girl. Her lip wrinkles. Of course it was Gamemaker Kathvarine. Was that her name? That girl that she'd doubted ever since she'd seen the new lineup of Gamemakers, for she was so… pathetic. Always so _mousey,_ so _nervous,_ like some _anxiety_ pricked at her soul. Elkavich didn't know how she'd gotten the role. Strings pulled from the _top_ of the Capitol did not mean competency.

_Oh, the spirit of nepotism._

(And she'd resented that, really: Elkavich had come from the rock-bottom. She'd crawled her way to the top through _work,_ through _intrigue_ and _stratagem._ There were not many opportunities that an escort could take; but she rationed them, vociferous, till from her fingers sprawled _connections_ and a _monopoly_ of power. And this girl? Came from _wealth_ and _strength_ —from _power_ that gave her the position. Never would she understand _work_ or _sacrifice_. That pretty figure of hers, too: perfect face, perfect body, _demure and complaisant and beautiful_ , must've helped some.)

So pardon her if she was a _little_ irritable.

"Interference from _what?_ " Elkavich snaps.

Kathvarine flinches, like someone's touched her.

"..."

" _Speak_."

Kathvarine's mouth opens—hangs, for a moment. And Elkavich's already rolling her eyes by the time the words get out of her lips.

"We're getting e-electromagnetic signals. From the inside. Not sure where it's from, but… it's happening. B-by that I mean, we're not sure where it's coming from… but thought that..." Another swallow.

_By Panem, could this girl get on with it?_

Elkavich scoffs. "Nonsense. Electromagnetic signals? You mean the _force-field?_ We'd _fixed_ the problems pertaining to the 55th Games. The _Arena_ is impenetrable. There _isn't_ anything wrong with the force-field. _._ "

And it _should_ be impenetrable. It _is_. The force-field had reduced Jordyn Moriau to char and dust. The force-field had _rendered_ all who had touched it into oblivion _._ Of course, there were _flaws:_ it flickered briefly, from time to time, perhaps its energy had weakened on _occasion,_ but it wasn't… notable. Wasn't… _enough,_ to warrant worry, really.

(It _can't._ It _shouldn't._ It _isn't_ important.)

Because she _isn't_ Guthrie. His mistakes doomed him… for his _oversights_. But she will not be doomed. Her Arena is… is flawless. It can't _not_ be. Elkavich's skin will remain intact. It _must._ She will prosper. She will _survive._

(Of course… _three months_ was not enough to prepare a _whole_ new Games in themselves. She had to _recycle_ , she had to _make-do,_ with old designs, but… what came out, came out _fine._ )

"We know that there are _fluctuations_ in the force-field," she mutters, fixing a glare on the girl. "Don't tell me that's all you came to me to _inform_."

The way Gamemaker Kathvarine's eyes rise in _panic_ is amusing, really. And her lips open, and Elkavich raises her eyebrows, and waits for her to stumble on her words.

"That's... not just the only signal w-we're getting," says Kathvarine. "There's one from the… outside. We—we think it's, er. Attacking our systems. S-something about a technological siege..."

_Fucking hell._

Elkavich scowls. She levels her eyes at the girl. Her chest _tightens_ , her rage _stokes_ , and she grips her _fists, don't feel don't feel don't yell—_

(She _quells_ the panic rising in her chest.)

"You couldn't've told me that _first?_ " Elkavich _snarls,_ and now the girl shrinks into herself like a withering rose. She slams her eyes shut, forces herself to regulate her breaths, _it's fine, everything's fine, nothing's going wrong,_ _ **you're fine**_ _,_ _ **fine**_ _, you won't end up like Guthrie, you_ _ **won't**_ _, that's different,_ _ **you're**_ _different, you're_ _ **fine**_ _…_

No. _No._ She refuses to be like Guthrie. She _refuses_ to be _punished,_ to be _dragged_ into a chamber, to be _decapitated…_

(Snow's eyes, too much like _basilisks_ , rivet on her.)

No. _No._ She _hasn't_ made a mistake. _No._ It isn't her fault. It _won't_ be her fault.

Elkavich bristles. She turns to Gamemaker Katharvine. _Finally,_ _ **finally**_ _… this stupid girl can be of_ _ **some**_ _use to her._

"You're in charge. Take _care_ of this problem. And if you don't..."

She lets her glare say the rest.

Panic overwhelms the young Gamemaker. And good—she could _prove_ herself. Live or die by her mistake. But in the meantime…

Elkavich turns her eyes back to her screen, to the _tributes_ , and _watches_ the Threes and the Sixes _._

Those with _vulture tattoos_ on their wrists.

And she flicks her screen to the Careers, congregated round the Cornucopia, and she gnashes her teeth together.

_Don't let me down._

_You won't want me to send the_ _**mutts** _ _out._


	19. The Solitary and The Comradery - Day 3, Part 1.

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

Chrys Gerhart is not there when she wakes up from her tent.

Neither is Kiernan Alcraiz. At first, she'd assumed that they were out foraging (and she'd prepared a _reprimand_ on her lips, for they had not _told her_ ), but time dragged across the clock and as the sun dragged up on the horizon and they still had not returned, Dior knew that it wasn't simply that.

It is unsurprising to her that Chrys Gerhart leaves. Her District Partner was without an arm, bleeding out, and he'd made no secret of his despise of her. Why would he want to spend his last days on Earth _staring_ back at her?

Chrys Gerhart will die. And better he take the Two boy with his demise.

(Usually, Dior would be _pissed_. They're breaking away from the pack. And she _is_ angry, because he cannot simply _leave_ —it's a _betrayal_ , in the strictest sense, they're undermining her authority, they're making her a _laughingstock_ of the Capitol for their leave, _even armless Gerhart doesn't wanna deal with you—_ )

She wants to kill him for all his trouble.

And she does want to.

Rage bubbles in her veins. A sneer protrudes by her lips. Emotions, ever-present, roils the insides of her skin. She _wants_ to murder him, wants to drag him six-feet-under _Earth_ , wants to get the _last word in_ , _don't think you can just leave like that, don't think you can just **embarrass** me like that, don't think you can **usurp** me like that,_ and she wants his blood to splash claret over the golden mounds, wants to watch, wants to listen to him sing pathetic little death-breath songs upon his death—

(But Dior Marini is _rational_. Dior Marini can wait. And she finds that she does not care. Not really. Not as much as she'd assumed that she _would_. Her mission is far too clear to her, now. And her mission does not involve her District Partner, nor a child. No: there is something far greater that involves the pack now.)

Her mission involves the revolution. And as much as Dior Marini despises admitting it— it is true, what Althea Ivory says. Elkavich had given them a message— had given _Dior_ a message.

They were to _end_ the rebel forces.

They were to end _Eight_.

For Eight is inherently rebellious.

She knows it. She _remembers_ it.

The 48th Games, for one, were a show.

Dior had been a mere child at the time, but she still remembers how Eight boy had _scorned_ the _Four girl_ of the Games. Till he was strangled by his own rope, and that, in itself, was a fitting retribution, made more delicious by Four girl's _victory_ being proclaimed moments after…

(And of course. She'll never be able to forget the 53rd. The Eights, a wild hunting pack, leaping across the greenery and dancing through the diffusing mist, cackles beholden in their breaths, _don't **hide** , hah, **Marini** , you'll never win, you'll never survive us—_)

Dior Marini takes a shuddery breath. _No, not now_. She cannot think of Mattie, now.

(Her sister, gasping for breaths. Her sister, life _drawn_ out of her breath. Her sister, dying because _Eight_. Because Eight girl _decided_ to hunt, decided not to lay down and _die_. Eight girl, _oh_ , Eight girl, with her brazen hair and her too-strong frame and her determined gaze and the unspeakable sneer upon her lips, _Sadie Rendevez_ with her wild black hair and her wry scoff and her everlasting scowl and her _unrepentant_ rebellion. _Sadie Rendevez_ , slamming her head against the Peacekeepers' helmet, spitting in their faces, spiteful, smiling—)

And can they judge her, really, if she has a _vendetta_? Can they _fault her,_ for wanting to _murder her?_ And her goal is not only for the greater good but it is _rational_.

Eight girl is the last threat left in the Arena.

Chrys Gerhart is half dead. Kiernan Alcraiz is a child. Hera Dalenka is high. Rhodos McNamara is complaisant. Althea Ivory is… dangerous, but she is so easily controlled.

And what Dior is doing, is this:

She is listening to Elkavich's _message_.

She is fulfilling Elkavich's _mission_.

And she understands, now. Just why they were handpicked. Dior Marini was chosen because she was trusted with the killing of the rebels. She's _designated_ the role of the harbinger of justice, of the _slaughterer_ , of the Capitol's _mission_. And what Dior Marini is this: she is _destined_ to end them.

(To finish the _Eights_ , stab, _smile_ , as their feet intermingle with dirt. So they do not trample upon Earth, wielding their spears and shields, _oh_ , Marini, _watch_ the outer Districts _triumph_. Watch them _finish_ the Games. Watch them _reign_ victorious, watch them strangle your neck with silver rope, watch them _end_ you. Won't you _just?_ )

The Arena is quiet. Too quiet, really. There have not been many dead— other than those that had perished in the Bloodbath and the Fives which they had stabbed to death.

And what Elkavich says is simple.

She wants _them_ to hunt the remaining down.

The Capitol wants the Careers to give them a show.

To shake up the Games.

To return them to _tradition_ , to _normalcy_ , to the _Capitol_. To make the Arena what it should be; not how it was _wasted_ as a vector for the rebels' message last Games.

(And perhaps that's why these Games are so similar to the last: similar _forests_ , similar _pines_ ; merely pervaded in gold.)

It's a message. To _them_. To make the Games _right_ again.

And Dior—

Oh, Dior Marini is all too happy to realise that mission.

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

Rhodos McNamara isn't sure about himself.

(The Games should've been straightforward. He's to be a Career, he's to kill, he's to listen to the pack leader. He's supposed to do what they all said. That's what he's supposed to be.)

But… it isn't.

Nine girl had _died_ , first off. By her own _hands_. And he should've _went_ for the kill, he should've killed her, really, that was what he's _supposed_ to do as a Career—

—but he didn't.

(And would it be selfish for him to say that he's almost…. glad? He can't _imagine_ bringing the spear down, slicing through flesh, skewering skin, knowing that the work done was undeniably _his_ —)

And then he'd seen the mark. And it had _hit_ him, then. When Hera Dalenka had spoken up. The talons were from training. When he'd seen Three and Six…

(Three and Six. _Conversing_ , as the training day had tied down, as the Gamemakers had drifted out of their stations, as the _Careers_ had left, as it had only been he and them left in the room. They, talking amongst one another, and they didn't seem to notice him—not immediately, not at least till he'd gotten an eyeful of the marks upon their wrists.)

They've brought up the _revolution_. And he'd told the rest of the pack. And he should've said their names, Three and Six, for their mission as Careers were to hunt down the dissidents, And he'll satisfy his pack, he'll satisfy the Careers, he'll play his _role_ , he'll be _useful_ , _indispensable_ to his companions, he'd be what they all want him to be—

But something had stopped him.

It is not untrue that Rhodos accedes to authority. He's complaisant, he's mollifying, he... pleases them. He's aware.

And _seeing_ people, so openly defiant, makes him _vertiginous_. A part of him wants to tell them all, about the _revolution_ , about the _talons_ , about all he'd seen, about all he _knows_.

But he stops himself.

Rhodos isn't sure why, but knowing that Three and Six are rebels, knowing that they're working to make rebellion, change, is almost… entrancing. As it is sickening to his stomach.

He could never, of course. The prospect of going against authority is _terrifying_ , and doing it so openly? Spitting their names, dragging a blade across your own _neck_ for it?

It makes him _shrink_.

(But at the same time… it is like overcoming an obstacle. They were doing what they wished, from the pits of their souls. Unrestrained—unfettered— _free_. And Rhodos McNamara does not know why that resonates with him so much, does not know why the prospect of it makes his heart leap, just as it makes him _dizzy_. He does not know what it is that grapples in his gut.)

Revulsion… repulsion…

(… desire?)

Rhodos McNamara knows that _change_ is underway. He knows that _change_ sings in the undercurrent of the Games. He knows that change _flits_ through the air, that change is _restless_ through the ground underneath him, that quakes, under his feet.

Something will happen. And he does not know _what_ , it is, exactly— but something _will_ happen.

He feels it in his gut.

Three and Six are part of the revolution. He'd known it, since training. Tattoos wreathe their wrists; not marks, but _talons_. He'd seen it. He'd felt it, too—in whispers, in training, conversations forbidden, quiet, but sing-song, dancing alive like pyres that had lit themselves alive. He'd seen it, in their eyes.

Behind him, Dior rants about the Eights. About their upcoming hunt. Rhodos does not say anything. Instead, he thinks about Three, and Six, and he tries to suppress his palpitating heart, his quickening breaths.

He does not speak.

But he feels eyes upon his back. And Rhodos inhales a quick breath, he glances at his hands, because he's supposed to be _using a weapon_ , he's supposed to be _preparing for the hunt, doing something_ , he's supposed to be supporting Dior and, and he's _not_ , he's not doing anything important now at all, and he's _sure_ it's Dior that looks at him now—

"Rhodos?"

He turns around.

Althea's face looks back at him. And she's stoic, still—but it's devoid of the coldness that would usually clench her poise.

(It is too clear, to Rhodos McNamara: that it is more a veneer than anything.)

"Althea," he exhales, and the amount of relief that imbues his breath is unspeakable. "Um. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Althea looks around, and there's a certain anxiousness in them. "... I'm not sure," she says, and her voice's quiet in a way that Rhodos hasn't really known her to be, before. She'd never been anything but _sure_. Not really.

"It just feels like there isn't something right. With this Arena."

Rhodos bites his lip. His heart-rate slows, slightly—a _t least she isn't talking about yesterday, at least she hasn't changed her mind, at least she isn't mad, at least she's okay with me, still…_

"Why do you say that?"

"It's just…" Althea sighs. "... it's so quiet."

And what is _unsaid_ lingers between them. It has been quiet— too quiet. If Rhodos closes his eyes and imagines, it's almost as if he isn't in the Games. He could just be venturing into the autumnal forests of Four; he could convincingly be on a _camping trip._

That was… _ludicrous_.

"I don't like it," Rhodos says, quietly. And even as he speaks, he feels something twinge by his lips. Because Althea _trusts_ him enough to confide in him about her suspicions. And he trusts her enough to tell her about _his_. They trust each other.

"Althea?" he says, and Althea's eyes meet him in curiosity. "I'm sorry about—about yesterday."

"What do you have to apologise for?" And although Althea's face is in a veneer of passivity, and oh so very _emotionless_ , Rhodos feels something like a smile push by his lips.

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

A hint of amusement pricks Althea's lips. She lets out a quiet sigh. And then, almost imperceptibly, almost suddenly, her poise slacks. It's as if the metal that held up her frame snakes out of her. Her eyes flit around, and worry strikes Rhodos's heart… and Althea's eyes, tired, look back up at him.

"I can't get it out of my _head_ ," she says, first. "Can't get… _them_ out. Their _deaths_ out. And I _should_. But I keep seeing them. In my _dreams_ ," and it's half a laugh. "… I know you say it's not _weakness_ , but it is, because the world's _seen_ me weak, and they can't, they _shouldn_ 't know…"

"No," Rhodos says, quietly. "No, you're not. Althea, you're one of the strongest people I know. I stand by what I've said. _Feeling_ makes you human. And it doesn't matter if the world sees you… _feeling things_."

Althea raises an eyebrow, lets out a sardonic, half-broken chuckle.

"It does. It's the Games, Rhodos."

"... still."

"Don't you get it?" she says, and exasperation glimmers by her half-smiling lips. "If I can't kill, then I'm weak. And if I'm _weak_ , then I'm not a _Career_ —I'm not a _Victor_. I just want to show them," she says, and her voice lowers an octave; so much so that Rhodos almost can't hear her words, himself. "I just want to show them what I can do."

"I know," he says. "And trust me. They know, too."

It's quiet, after that.

"I hope you won't have to kill someone, Rhodos." Althea Ivory murmurs, finally. And although the words could've been biting, they're… not.

He meets the earnesty in her eyes. "You'll have to, eventually... you will, they'll _make_ you. But that is the last thing you deserve to feel."

And then Althea Ivory trudges off, back to Dior, who calls for the pack, and Rhodos McNamara is left still, standing.

Althea's words clang in his head.

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

They trudge through the golden forests, and Hera Dalenka's stomach is rife with… _something_.

(Truth to be told— Hera Dalenka hasn't known how to feel, since the Games began. Perhaps she could say the same before that, too: in the pre-Games, in the interviews, in the train rides, in the moment she'd thrust her hand up into the skies and volunteered...)

But she can't think about that, now.

Instead, she stuffs her hands into her pockets… but they knock into the glass there. And another set of coldness sets into her chest.

(She'd heard the ping, after the rest of the Careers had gone to sleep. And Hera Dalenka's eyes had snapped up, through the bleary smear of the too- _cold_ , too- _dark_ night. Whirling with the winds was a parachute: swaying, side-to-side, and she'd caught the silver string in her fist.)

( _"Have this,"_ was taped on the note upon the vial, _"you deserve it."_ )

Morphling was not an uncommon sponsor gift. It'd been used, in the 54th; the District One girl was positively _addicted_ , bubbling in its froth-white ethereality and in the wet glory from its overflow. She'd gone on to win the Games, and she'd gone on to her tombstone: not a year after her victory.

Hera's fingers quiver next to the glass. She's stuffed the vial in, because she didn't want to think about it. But her fingers twitch, and before she knows it she's untwisting the cap, she's—

 _No_.

Hera forces her fingers in a fist and stops herself from thinking.

Kiernan Alcraiz... had left. And her heart had shrivelled within herself—because she'd wanted to talk to him. Wanted to _comfort_ him, _reassure_ him. Ever since the Bloodbath. And she can only assume that he's being _cared_ for, because Chrys Gerhart's left with him, and _he_ 's been far closer to Kiernan than she had ever been…

But she can't help but feel like… she wouldn't see him again.

A python constricts in her chest.

Because there was something left unsaid with Kiernan.

(And although the words don't quite _form_ on her tongue, what she sees is the _memory_ of Kiernan Alcraiz's _stare_ in the train rides and there is the _memory of Alcraiz_ , of _Maeve Alcraiz_ , that District Two girl last Games who soared too high and fell too strong into the depths of _forests_ and wind and cold and dirt...)

And Hera Dalenka knows she should've said something, knows that she should've _confronted_ him, _comforted_ him, but…

They're trudging through the forests. In the serene Arena indulgent in its gold.

Dior wants to hunt. The _Eights_ remained unspoken, but the target painted upon their backs is… obvious.

(Does Hera _want_ it? She's _here_ in the pack. And she's revealed to them all about the _rebels_. About the party that the other Careers had left too early to see the ruin of. About the _tattoos_ and about… them.)

What she said's affected the pack. Dior's jovial, for one—too willing to _kill_ , only too _glad_ to satisfy what the Capitol ordains. And she sees the sunkenness in Rhodos's eyes, the _conflict_ that inhabits him, and she sees Althea Ivory, and her all-too-stiff poise and Hera almost wants to speak, _do you feel it too, do their deaths affect you so much too—_

It was involuntary, the way those words spilt out of her lips. And she didn't necessarily want to say it. But she did.

Because she was _useful_ , she was _capable_ , she wasn't just half-in a reverie all the time, she had _strength_ , she was _strong_ , she was _perfect_ , she could…

(Could she?)

Hera Dalenka is a _fighter_. She can kill; she has the strength to. She has the decade of her life she'd put herself in training to prove so. She can shoot a target in the bullseye; she can fight a dozen people and stay standing; she can skewer a head from its body. She is able. She is capable.

Hera Dalenka wants to _fight_. She can fight; she has the will to. She has her parents' support; she has their wishes and their dreams for her future.

( _"You'll be set for life, once you win,"_ her father had said, and Hera had nodded, once, twice, thrice. _"I can't wait to design your clothes, after your victory,"_ her mother had said, grinning, _"and you'll wear white, right? It suits you! No, you must wear white; and I'll pick the lilies to accompany, oh, I can't wait for the day,"_ and Hera had nodded again, had let a weak smile penetrate her lips, as her mother fretted over her and dressed her and led her by the hand, _here, Hera, win for the Dalenkas, win for yourself, won't you?_ )

Hera Dalenka wants to _survive_. There are only so many left alive in the Arena, and she is underestimated. Althea and Dior's tenseness will come to a head; they will take each other out. Rhodos McNamara is an easy answer; he will _cower_ , he will _plead_ , he is more _sheep_ than Career; and of course, Hera Dalenka may be the same, but she is aware of her own passivity. And Chrys Gerhart will die anyway, half an arm razed away, and Kiernan Alcraiz…

(Her chest constricts. No. She can't think about tactics. They make her stomach turn, treating everyone around her like they're chess-pieces, like they're stepping-stones rather than humans, no, Hera Dalenka _cannot_ think like that.)

Hera Dalenka is _clean,_ for now, at least. And she might still be suffering the _aftereffects,_ she might be cold-turkey, but... she can win; she has _willpower_ ; she has _strength_ ; she can do _anything_.

In theory: Hera Dalenka is indisputably a contender for the Victor's crown.

(But ever since she had watched the Hunger Games on-screen—she'd known. From her trembling fingers and her stomach's agony and her bit-lips to stop herself from _shivering_. She'd known, and she'd taken meth and ket and acid and ecstasy and snow for it. She'd _suppressed_. Through stardust and silver and cheap-liquor and moonshine and she'd become the _best_ for it, too.)

Her steps feel… barely there. She's unstable. She's untethered.

(Because Hera Dalenka _knows_ , the moment her eyes had landed upon people, upon the tributes, upon everyone there—that she could not do it. She cannot kill. She cannot live up to her parents' expectations. She cannot make a better life for herself.)

Hera Dalenka is _everything_ , and yet a Career she is not.

A sharp breath's taken by her side.

Hera's head turns to see Rhodos McNamara inhale. And she follows his line of sight to find where he stares at ahead—over the autumnal-riddled grounds and the susurrating leaves and the dark-gold sheen of the Arena—

To the peak of a _tent_.

Hera's breaths short.

Althea's eyes narrow.

Dior Marini grips her sword.

"So?" Dior says, turns to the pack, cocks her head. "What are we waiting for?"

_What are we waiting for?_

She has her hand on her dual daggers and she has her breath in her throat and Hera Dalenka knows she is _voiceless_. There is a stone in her throat and there are stones that bind her feet down and there are stones that break her skin and stones shoved in her mouth. She _cannot_ speak.

"There are at least two people in there," Dior Marini says, lifting her chin. She doesn't even bother to conceal her voice—not even as the tent rustles, not even as the sound of a zipper being pulled sounds through the quiet air, not even as a hand peeks out through the wraps.

(They know _who_ has power here.)

And the _tributes_ get out of the tent, the _kids_ leave the tent, and—and that's when she sees.

District Six boy. District Ten girl. Leave.

And they are deers caught in headlights.

"You know," Dior says, _tuts_ , really, as her eyes swivel from Six and Ten to the Careers. "I'm getting tired of being the only _killer_ in the pack. I've killed three. Rhodos— _Hera, really?_ One and _zero_ respectively. Neither of you has killed since the Bloodbath. I wonder what those in the _Capitol_ will think."

And Hera Dalenka _watches_ as the tip of Dior's sword touches the soft earth, as Dior cocks her head and leaves a _question_ in her eyes.

"Go on," Dior says, nodding to Ten girl, whose eyes are too-wide, too-brown, lips parted like her breath's caught in her throat.

(Too _human_.)

"I'm doing you a favour, Hera," Dior says, and Hera feels coldness in her bones, feels ice in her _spine_ , feels empty and void and like she is nothing at all. And Dior's eyes burn in her back as Hera's feet place themselves one and another in front of her, as she lifts her daggers from her sides (even as her veins are ice), as she approaches Ten girl.

Ten girl is _scared_. And yet she is rooted to the spot, and Hera feels her stomach plummet because it would've been easier if she ran if she took flight till she was just a _body_ in a distance and then maybe Hera could imagine that she was doing _target practice_ , that her blade was not a knife and that the girl was just a dummy.

But Ten girl's eyes are upon her, large and wide and _terrified_ , and Hera's getting closer with every step, two daggers in her hands, and she knows—knows that this is something she cannot escape from.

And they're so close—face-to-face, close enough to kiss—when Hera's daggers sink into Ten girl's stomach.

She does not even protest. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is open but she is already so distanced, already like she is borne from mist. Hera watches as Ten girl falls apart in front of her; her hand, her _markless_ - _hand_ falling away, crashing into earth, red leaking from her gut with the shudder of her body, red by her mouth and red filling her mouth, _dying, dying, by her hand._

 _I'm so sorry,_ Hera wants to whisper, at the corpse, at the soon-to-be-corpse, and yet her breaths and words are stuck in her throat.

_I don't know why—_

_I'm so sorry—_

And this she _thinks_ as she meets Ten's dying eyes, as Ten's last breaths rattle from her chest, as Ten slips away into the void, and even then without a sound.

Guilt swallows Hera _alive_.

Her actions are involuntary. Hera kneels down, next to the body—even as Six boy screams, shouts, but even his are dull against the roar of mist—and Hera puts down her knives. She wavers before the corpse. Her fingers reach out, and they hover over the corpse, for a moment, _fuck it_ , and she closes Ten's eyes.

_I'm so sorry._

(And she will not say that apology out loud, for it is _insincere_ , it is _hypocritical_ , from a murderer that'd just killed Ten, who the hell would _believe_ her, really, when she'd volunteered to be a Career. And so Hera Dalenka presses her lips, moves her hands away from the girl— _for the last thing she would've wanted was to be touched by her murderer_ —exhales a breath, gets up.)

And Dior Marini will be pissed. But Hera Dalenka finds that she does not care. Not really. Not anymore.

Through the heavy mist, Six boy lets out a feral _cry_. And before Hera knows it he's barraging into her, he's _screeching_ like an animal, _sobbing_ , and Hera's breaths short, and she's on the ground, and she feels blows rain upon her skin and she's going to _die_ , and she almost lets out a breathy laugh because hell, she's without her daggers that she'd left by Ten girl's side and she deserves it really, _she should die, she killed, she killed and she can't—_

—and Six boy's being dragged away, being dragged _off_ her, kicking and roaring and crying, and it's Althea Ivory, stoic as stone, who saves her. And half of Hera wants to protest— _don't, let him, I deserve it, it's retribution, really, it's just—_

"Kill him."

And Hera's eyes are wide, but Dior is not talking to her. Dior Marini curls her lip and scoffs at Rhodos McNamara.

"Go on," she says. "Use your spear. Like how you'd used it upon Nine girl. What a bite it made on her throat. Make it _clean_."

Althea Ivory is still, but she is cold and white and sheetwhite, maybe, if Hera wants to read into it. Rhodos stares, and for a moment Hera wonders if he knows what to do, wonders if he's frozen, just as cold as she is, just as fearful, just as reluctant—

"Kill him," Dior hisses, and Rhodos _nods_ , and Hera feels too many things roil in her stomach.

And Rhodos does.

It is so quick, it is barely a moment, when Six's neck caves open, yearning-wide with sick-black and the guzzle of blood, ruptured open by a blade.

Althea lets go. Six boy falls to the ground. And he's gasping, but he's guttering _blood_ , guttering cerise, and even as his fingers stretch and he tries to reach for Ten girl's hand _it isn't enough, it's never enough—_

A cannon thuds off into the skies.

(They raise a field of goosebumps upon her skin, as the cannon's cry rakes across her skin, and Hera Dalenka swallows, and there's so much coldness that wraps around her, and it's the winds, _battering her, unstoppable, so unforgiving,_ and she's so fucking frozen _, god,_ and it's so _reminiscent,_ too _, so redolent—_ )

(… was this what the 55th felt like?)

And then there are _claps_ , and Dior, too-sarcastic, looks between them, a sneer doused in sardonicism tinging her lips.

"Good job," Dior drawls. And Hera Dalenka wants to _hurl_ , because the dirt eats at her, they crawl upon her skin and they swallow her in flecks of cold and they don't release, because seeing the dead's so disgusting, seeing the dead hurts her heart and hurts her head. And though she knows she's a Career _(and showing kindness is weakness, being friendly is weakness, being caring is weakness)..._

Hera Dalenka is so cold.

Rhodos is shaking. She can see it, even though she's five-feet away, and she knows that Dior's all-too-aware and she knows that Althea notices, too, because Althea fixes a cold glare fixed upon Dior. And there's half a challenge in Althea's eyes, and _oh— oh, no._

"Two more dead. Are you happy now?" Althea Ivory says. And her voice is distinctly cold, still so frozen, emotionless— but a _dare_ underlines it all.

A flare of anger flashes through Dior's eyes. But coldness, stolidness, stoicness steels her face, and that is all that remains.

"We are _winning_. Of course I would be happy." Dior says. And she turns away: back to Rhodos, back to Hera.

"It is the Eights that are left. Of the rebellion. We'll hunt them tonight. We'll fulfil what the Gamemakers—what _Elkavich_ wants, tonight. Any objections?"

The coldness in Althea's stance flickers. A certain sort of controlled anger flicks in her eyes, and Hera's stomach turns.

"Why are you so _obsessed_ with Eight girl?" Althea says, cocks her head. And her eyes meet Dior's, and it is a challenge that singes her eyes.

Dior's eyes snap towards Althea. But there is no surprise in her lids— it is almost as if she'd expected it.

"And do I not have a _reason_ to want to hunt Eight down, Althea Ivory?" she snarls, and Hera's heart misses a beat.

"Let's—let's not do this _now_ ," Rhodos McNamara pleads. And Althea Ivory lets out an exhale (though it is drenched in _knowingness_ ), and Dior scoffs.

"What's the reason?" Althea says. A fit of certain anger pushes her lips down to a frown. And there is calculation in her eyes, and that would be Althea's equivalent to a sneer, and _oh, oh no—_ Althea knows, too _clearly_.

Madness pulses in Dior's eyes. But it is pushed down with an insouciant sneer. "Haven't you just told us last night, _Althea_? Elkavich wants us to hunt. That's what we're doing. That's what I am doing. Do you really not want to do what our _Head Gamemaker_ ordains?"

There is a _suggestion_ seeped in Dior's ending words; one that makes Hera's throat tight and her heart beat too rapidly.

( _Going against the Games_ , was something that no one dared suggest; not after the 55th. There was a void where conversations about the Victor were; there was no mention of any sort of rebellion. Hera knows, at least—she _remembers_ , at least, even faintly, in distant memory, through slivers and shards she'd collected through her blur in _exhilaration_ and _euphoria_.)

Althea Ivory does not rise to the bait. She tilts her head at Dior, and there is disdain that fills her eyes. "And, if I recall correctly—you had been obsessed with Eight girl long before. Haven't you, Dior? Even before the beginning of the Games?"

"And you've been challenging me long enough."

Dior's eyes _flare_. And there's a rage that takes her, unchecked—and Hera's eyes widen as Dior fingers grip tighter upon her sword, still-bloodstained, and she's riveting the steel upon Althea, and Althea's hand's upon her halberd, and she seems too ready to fight, and Hera can only watch, she can only watch and—

And then the earth beneath them _explodes_.


	20. The Resolute and The Ruined - Day 3, Part 2.

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

Chrys Gerhart leaves the Career pack, and he is free _._

He gives fuck-all about Dior. Her and her grandiloquent, obnoxious _ass_ can shove it. Dior Marini can rot in hell for all he cares; she can die in her obsessive quest for the _Eights,_ she can die strangled, for all it matters. She is no longer Chrys Gerhart's problem, and Chrys Gerhart does not need to care about _her_.

All he needs to care about today is…

Six girl.

And maybe he's _petty,_ and maybe he's _just like Dior,_ but he has a _reason_. She's rent a _stump_ out of his arm and every breath he takes are _daggers_ in his lungs and it's taking all the morphine that his mentor's doping him up with to keep himself conscious. Sure, it might be _spiteful,_ but it's not like Dior; going after the Eights without rhyme or _reason,_ with so much _intensity._ But is it not deserved?

And he has a reason, more than most of the clueless rich bitch students in the Academy would've, in their search for _glory_ and _fame_ or one another stereotypical reason:Chrys is doing it for his _family._

For his struggling family, barely able to make ends meet. He's a _Career_ for them; he's here to _help_ them.

He is.

And he'll start with _her, Six girl,_ the bitch that deserves his blade the most _,_ and he'll work his way through the tributes. He'll kill them all. He'll kill _Dior,_ too, he'd certainly like to, but Dior is so embroiled in her internecine quest against Eight. They'll mutually self-destruct. And so will the Career pack, for they _don't_ matter to him.

And then with that—and then with _that,_ perhaps he stands a chance.

(No. He _does_ stand a chance. Maybe he's _missing an arm,_ and maybe he's _bleeding out,_ and maybe Dior Marini's _right,_ and that he'll be _exsanguinated_ —but Chrys Gerhart _refuses_ to kneel over and die. He is _above_ that.)

Chrys has a plan, he _does,_ doesn't matter if he's bleeding to his death, doesn't _matter_ if he has barely a day or two to if he keeps his mind on Six girl and if he focuses on the way her neck'll snap it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

They're travelling through the welded honeycomb forests. Eastwards _._ Far away from where the pack would be hunting. And towards where _Six girl_ had run.

With Kiernan Alcraiz by his side.

(If he's being totally honest… Chrys isn't _exactly_ sure, why, he'd brought Kiernan along. Maybe the kid's an asset, but only so much of an asset as he is a liability. Kieran Alcraiz is _mad,_ and he is _volatile,_ and he feels so _inferior,_ and he wants to _justify_ himself and his presence _,_ and if Chrys Gerhart were being smart or rational, he would simply just leave Kiernan a victim to an imploding pack. To leave him to be cannibalised by the warring factions; a casualty from the likes of Dior or Althea or _anyone,_ really. It would be so easy—and it'd b _e one more down_ , _one step closer to the crown_.)

But he… couldn't. Not really. Kiernan helped him. He'd helped him with his tourniquet; he'd watched out for him. And his scowling face and his sneer would never show, but Chrys knows that Kiernan Alcraiz cares about him. Even a little.

(And there's a part of him, a more _personal part,_ a part of him that would never admit— that when he looks at Kiernan he sees his brother reflected and because of that he can't—he can't _not_ bring him along. Not really.)

Was it a poor decision? Perhaps. Rash? Perhaps.

But it was right _._ It's what his heart wanted to do. It's what he _needed_ to do.

And he's glad.

But for now.

For now, they hunt Six. They'll _end_ Six. He'll _kill_ Six, by his own hand; he'll wrench her arm out, he'll make her taste _retribution._ And no matter how much Kiernan Alcraiz reminds him of family—he is _not_ Chrys's family, not really. And he serves a reminder:

Of his _goals._ Of what he's _supposed to do._ Of how he _needs_ to win.

For _them._

(That is how Chrys justifies himself. It is always only for _them_.)

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

He treks through the Arena with Chrys Gerhart, and the Arena is far too familiar to him.

Physically, he knows why he's here.

(Of course, there's _Maeve_ , fucking _Maeve—_ but he isn't thinking about that now. He _can't_ think about that now.)

He's here because of Chrys Gerhart, who wants to kill. And Kiernan isn't sure _why_ he's agreed to be dragged upon this revenge-quest, but it was better than being with _Dior_. Or the rest of the _pack,_ because their eyes raise hairs upon his skin, and leave an extra shudder in his already fucked-up breath. They, who are _wolves_ , ready to pounce—

It's better that he's with Chrys. It's better that he doesn't _die._

He knows why he's here, physically.

(Yet mentally… Kiernan Alcraiz can't shrug off the sense of _deja-vu_ that he feels. And sure, he might've fucking seen his sister _die_ on screen, and sure, he might've just been remembering _that,_ really, as he treks through the golden weaves of moss, but fucking hell—)

It's so _cold_ in the Arena _._

(And it's cold _,_ despite the warm-gold that the Arena shows, but it is _too_ similar at the same time, too. It is… eerie. It's like the gusts and the winds of the Arena last Games have made their way _here.)_

Have stayed here _._

(... he tries not to think about it. Because once he _starts_ he can't stop, and Kiernan can't think about _Maeve,_ or that stupid girl from One, or the _55th Games_ , or _any of them_ at all. He _can't._ Cause then he'll begin to _remember,_ remember the way his sister shorted on her breaths, remember the mutt's grizzled chops after gnawing on her spine, the empty mirages in her eyes as she'd died, he'll remember and—)

— and he can't be that in the Games.

"Kiernan?"

He looks up at Chrys. And there's concern's in his eyes, obviously there'll be _concern_ in his eyes, and Kiernan Alcraiz exhales. Closes his eyes. Fucking _hell._ Because he's so _obvious, isn't_ he? Just so damn see- _through,_ so damn _weak—_

"Are you okay, Kiernan?"

"I'm fine," Kiernan responds, and there's a certain scoff that edges his voice. And he's thankful for it, too—better _mad,_ better _angry,_ just so Chrys'll _stay away_ from him, just so he'll stop _plodding,_ stop _prying,_ stop trying to _unveil_ him like he's some enigma to pick open, some chest to break open—

A frown twinges on Chrys Gerhart's lips. "You don't look fine, Kiernan."

"I _am,"_ he says, _firm,_ almost snaps, but he doesn't, he controls himself, takes it back.

Because Chrys is looking at him with concern in his eyes, and despite how much Kiernan hates it, there's also a certain… sensation, confined, that tugs at his chest.

(When was the last time someone had looked at him with concern in their eyes?)

"... okay," Chrys murmurs, pushes his lips together.

_Thank you._

"But, uh, if you don't mind me saying… I think I know what you're thinking."

Kiernan's eyes widen. _Please, no, don't—_

"... I know about Maeve."

He stiffens.

"Don't."

Chrys sighs. And his eyes are not even on Kiernan's eyes. He's gazing into the _forests_ that look too much like _those_ forests, and he's eyeing the _skies_ that are the same damn skies, and his fingers are rippling over his skin because the _wind_ that swallows the Arena is _just the same, just the same…_

"I just wanted to say," and _stop speaking_ is all Kiernan wants to say, because _no,_ not right _now,_ not when the winds are so ferocious and not when he's so _cold,_ not when he closes his eyes and removes the grandeur of gold. Not when he'll be in the 55th Games again, amid _death_ and _frigid hell_ , strewn in the place that had rendered allto oblivion—

And Chrys either doesn't _notice_ or doesn't _care,_ no, not at all, because he pushes his lips together and he's exhaling a breath and here's looking into the _skies_ rather than Kiernan's _eyes_ —

"If it's worth anything…" he says, quietly. "I'm sorry. About how she died."

Chrys finally looksat Kiernan.

And his eyes are _so blue_ too _damn blue—has it been so blue before it hasn't been so blue before he doesn't remember them being so fucking blue—_ and Kiernan's breaths are _quickening, no, fuck—_

—and _shut up_ is all he wants to scream because _no he isn't,_ no he isn't _sorry,_ he doesn't _care,_ he _can't care,_ and Kiernan tries to ignore the heat in his ears, pressing _hollow_ _pain_ against his head, _don't breathe too fast, don't breathe too slow, steady, steady…_

And he feels Chrys's eyes too acutely on him and he does not want to _speak._ Because if he speaks then Chrys'll hear how his throat's stuffy and how his eyes are rimmed with red and how frustration pricks pain by his eyes and Kiernan Alcraiz does not want to _cry,_ he _can't cry,_ he can't show just how weak he is to the Capitol—even if they _know_ it already—and they can't see that he _cares,_ can't see _any_ of that, cause he _doesn't,_ he doesn't _give_ a fucking shit about his _life,_ not when he knows he'll die anyway, and he isn't _affected_ by the Capitol's _Games,_ he isn't affected by _Maeve's,_ he isn't, he's _not,_ he's not _anything,_ he's not anything…

Instead, Kiernan gazes off into the distance, _refocuses,_ because he can't have Chrys _see_ him, not like _this,_ not right _now._ He looks into the _gold_ and concentrates on the autumnal leaves and wills the images of mist-frosted luscious-green forests to melt away.

But it doesn't.

And what he _does_ see, is this.

A lone figure. Trudging off in the distance.

And Kiernan's throat tightens when he realises, exactly, _who_ it is.

"It's Six."

* * *

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

Six girl does not see him.

And Chrys wants to laugh. So much for hunting, _really_ , when they're tripping up on _prey._

Six girl has an axe, too, in her right hand. _His axe._ That axe she'd robbed off _him,_ that she'd used to _destroy his limbs,_ that axe, _his fucking axe—_

He snorts. Oh, how much he'd _like_ to knock her over, force her to the ground, seize _his axe_ from her hands, let the blade descend across her arm, watch her limb drop to the ground, watch it _roll away,_ and he'll be towering over her, his _revenge_ fulfilled, and he'll lop off her head with it too, and then she won't _matter_ anymore, _nothing_ will matter anymore—

"Chrys," Kiernan says, and his eyes snap back to the District Two boy. There's wariness in his eyes, and Chrys feels another feeling sink in his chest, particularly when Kiernan speaks.

"... are you killing her?"

"Of course," he says easily, and his _hand,_ the one remaining hand he has left, grips his axe.

He's waited too long for Six.

(And isn't it deserved? Pain, so _excoriating,_ ravages his arm; _vertigo,_ dizziness, attacks his _head;_ his balance is _horrendous,_ halfway between _falling,_ lurching, _falling again;_ he can barely _walk,_ can barely talk without pain; _headaches_ pound in his head, he hasn't gotten any nights of sleep, so delirious in pain, drifting in morphine and pain...)

And Six girl must've _felt_ something in the air because she twists her head, and then her eyes land on _Chrys._ And she _recognises_ him because her eyes narrow, and her grip on her axe _(his axe)_ tightens, and it's like she wants to _fight again._

_(She dares?)_

"Fight me, then!" he yells, and it's torn out of his throat before he even _knows it,_ far too guttural _,_ and Six girl cocks her head, and half a grin licks by her lips, and she doesn't _run,_ no, she stays her ground, looks at him in the eyes.

"Yeah? You _want_ me to?" she says, and it's too much _too_ taken in _amusement,_ in a challenge so assured in herself, oh, her _audacity,_ her _fucking audacity—_

Chrys snarls. And he knows that Kiernan's _tensing_ by him, and there are words that spill out of his lips, but they're so _muffled, really_ , and he can't hear anything except for the roar of blood in his ear and Chrys Gerhart doesn't give a _shit_ about him, now.

_("Don't kill, don't kill—" and Emilio's eyes look up at him, pleading, "Chrys, why're you training for the Games? Why do you wanna kill everyone in there? People… people that're just like me. Why…?")_

He grips his axe and his footsteps crunch against the autumnal leaves. And the scent of the wilderness infiltrates his _lungs,_ and it imbues a thrill in his _veins,_ he's so _ready._ Rage inhabits his heart in a sing-song dance, and Chrys lets out a breath, lets a grin ravage his face too.

Chrys swings. And it meets Six girl's steel with a screech, and they're both _standing,_ breathing, and Six girl's grinning, all too fucking _gleeful_ at the pause of a blow. He scowls, twists her axe aside with the metalhead, but she jumps back, and _anger_ ravages his skin, _oh no,_ not _this,_ not _now._

(He _needs_ to kill her. Needs to for _himself,_ needs to for his _family_. And once his axe crests across her neck. And once she's dead. She won't _matter,_ won't _matter,_ won't _matter..._ )

They fight _._ Flames stoke his skin for every _moment more_ she stands and stays parrying, hitting, _grinning._ And he's _mad,_ he just wants her head decapitated and he wants her to _die_ and he wants it to be _over with_ —

(... won't _matter,_ won't _matter,_ won't _matter..._ )

Six girl doesn't have much experience with an _axe,_ no matter how hard she _tries._ And all in all, Chrys Gerhart is a _Career,_ and he's the _best_ of the Academy, and so, and so—

He sends his axe smashing down on hers, and her axe breaks away from her hand. There's an opening. Chrys _relishes_ in the surprise in Six girl's eyes _, what can you do now,_ as she stares at her fallen axe, and then him, and she reaches down to grab her weapon—but no, _oh no,_ it's too late.

One swing and he decapitates her.

Her head rolls. A burst of feeling explodes from his chest, and so much _glee_ environs his _skin,_ his _lungs,_ and he's so _ecstatic,_ he's so _gleeful, oh,_ he couldn't be any fucking _happier—_

Until his eyes meet Six's, and he expects _joy_ to jag down his breath, expects his veins to pulsate with energy, he expects _retribution_ to be wrought, he expects to _feel alive again—_

But her eyes are so _brown._

And Chrys's breath stops.

(And in Six girl's face he sees his _sister_ , and suddenly her black hair melts off into brown fringes and a bright grin, sparkling with a smile and sunrise, _Chrys, would you seriously? You'd_ _ **help**_ _me?_ And Chrys had nodded, let a grin dance by the corner of his lips, _of course I would, why wouldn't I? I'll have all the money I'll need when I become Victor, and I'll help you with your projects, you can be a fashion designer! I'll get you into the positions you need with my prestige, and you'll do so well, Melissa, you can produce your designs Capitol-wide, I know it already—_ )

And Chrys's breath wavers, his _axe_ wavers, and he's still, for a moment, his limbs seized, _he,_ so frozen, and he doesn't know how to _speak,_ doesn't know how to _breathe._ He looks down at Melissa, _dead,_ and he can't… he doesn't… he…

(And the cannon thrums against the grounds, an earthshattering sound, and his breath is in his throat and he's so _cold,_ he's so, he's so _cold..._ )

And he's trying to save his siblings, _he's killed Melissa ("Chrys, d'you wanna try on my new design?")_ , and he's trying to give them a better life, and Kiernan Alcraiz's _face_ haunts his breaths, _(Emilio, so terrified, "Chrys, why're you going into a death game, I don't wanna_ _ **lose you**_ _in there)_ , and Seven boy, bleeding apart, _(Julius, all grown up, "I wanna be a woodworker, Father!"),_ and Ten boy, muscled with work, split in half, _(his father, Lancer, a weary breath by his lips, so sooted in his work, "Chrys, help me with dinner, would you? I wouldn't know what I'd do without you—")_

And _their_ families don't matter to him, they _don't,_ they're _tributes_ , he knows, he doesn't _care_ about them, they _need_ to die for _his_ to live, but then something else sinks into his chest, something vile and grotesque and hollow, because that's when it _hits him_ —

(... because it won't matter, it won't _matter, nothing_ will matter. No matter what Chrys does, he's _dying_ anyway, he won't _save_ his family. He won't _win._ And it won't matter.)

It won't matter.

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

Kiernan watches Chrys Gerhart murder with eyes-too-wide, and he is breathless.

His stomach's shaking, quaking with the frenzy of an earthquake. And he's _familiar_ with the sight of _death,_ he _knows_ it. He's all too _willing_ to dispense death, he's _supposed_ to, he's a _Career_ (no, not really, never a Career, just a _wannabe_ ) _,_ and he wants to _kill_ , he wants to _raze_ , he wants to _show them all,_ just how much he's _worth,_ just how much he's _able,_ just how much he is _capable,_ but—

But the _death_ cements it for him, too clearly, as he watches Six girl gargle on her blood—and no, _no,_ despite how much he _wants_ to, despite how much it _thrums_ in his bones (kill, kill, _kill,_ show them just what you're capable of, show them you're not just a fucking child-about-to-die, _doomed_ to die in the Games—)

Kiernan Alcraiz _can't_ kill. He isn't made to.

(And 'course there's another girl he always sees, blonde instead of brown, _head_ lolling outta her skin, spine jagging through like a pitchpole, her lips brushed with dirt, her fingers constricted together, half-gripping a stem in her pocket, its petals trampled by claws, her face mangled with rose petals…)

_No. Nonononono—_

But he can't _deny_ it.

Because fucking hell, fucking hell, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how he tries to _forget_ her, no matter how much he _curses_ her and _scorns_ her and no matter how many times he tries to scrub their last name from his name, no matter how much he pounds his head against his fists and chokes back his sobs and forces the tears from brimming over his eyes, he _knows—_

Kiernan Alcraiz hasn't moved on from Maeve Alcraiz's death.

(He knows he cannot _forget_. No—he _can't._ Not the moments they'd spent in the golden forests, laughing and shaking, chasing one another, hide-and-seek through the plains, _catch_ through the too-destitute Alcraiz household, Maeve's too-loud, too-bubbly laughter and shrieks, as she'd tackled him to the grounds and embraced him with tickles, and he'd squirmed and _laughed_ and he'd been so fucking _happy,_ when the two beds in their room were still _theirs_ and alive and when they kept making the sculptures upon their shelves, despite the way Mom was sighing in exasperation, cause they couldn't _stop,_ not when he could've spent a moment more, a second more, a _heartbeat_ more together, and they _were_ together, grinning, laughing, _too fucking happy for the world,_ and—)

And Kiernan's eyes are so wet and he feels a torrent of sobs in his lungs but they come out only as half-winded chokes and he _knows,_ he's having the beginnings of an attack, and he needs his _inhaler,_ needs to _breathe,_ but he's _rooted_ and he's _shaking_ and _shivering_ like there's an earthquake that creeps up on his skin and he's so, he's _so_ cold, so cold-broken-cold and even though he _knows_ what he needs, even though the inhaler's _right there_ in his pocket and he knows what he has to do, knows he has to reach, he _doesn't,_ he _doesn't—_

He doesn't _breathe._

And there's something muffled by his ear, someone's _speaking_ that he _can't hear,_ that dances across his skin, and then there are arms upon his shoulders and there's a figure kneeling in front of him, _speaking,_ shaking him, but he can't move, he's hollow, he's only a shell of himself and he's _half-away,_ he isn't even there, and as much as the figure blurred in slices of mist shakes him he doesn't _respond,_ he's in _shock—_

( _Catatonia,_ wasn't that what Maeve had felt, _destroyed_ by the mutt but not obliterated yet, in the process of _dying,_ not quite dead but so sure she won't make it _alive,_ nerves frayed and breaths robbed and eyes forced open by the way her sinews pull, made more a doll a _caricature_ a thing _waning_ away in her _death, catatonia_ in her _death._ He's _suffocating_ himself, and panic swarms him as he watches Six girl _die_ in front of his eyes, head gone and positioned so much like so and as he watches Chrys, _blue-eyed,_ axe her alive and _oh,_ isn't it _so fucking ironic_ that he'd _wished_ for Maeve to die by suffocation, and isn't it _so fucking fun_ for the world, _so goddamn karmic_ that he's dying, dying, _dying,_ lungs constricted and his mouth open and breathing but he _can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't_ _ **breathe**_ _—_ )

And Chrys's _speaking,_ he's uttering words, his mouth's moving, through the shield of slashed white-glass that stands in front of his eyes, and it's so _muffled,_ it's a _buzz,_ he can't hear anything other than his attempts to breathe, and Chrys is shaking him, he's _yelling,_ words he can't hear and words that don't matter, really _,_ he's trying to bring Kiernan back into _consciousness,_ trying to bring him _alive_ again—

But all he hears is his shaking breaths and all Chrys sees is _him,_ so close to death, and then he's _falling_ , he's himself _dropping,_ he's _crashing,_ down onto the _dirt_ but even then the _earth_ slips out underneath him, _swallows_ him, like a gruesome sea, so _foul_ , so _thick_ in _excess,_ so _much,_ too _much,_ and it's _dragging_ him down, and he's _flailing,_ he's _struggling,_ he's _trying,_ but the earth _sucks_ him in, and explosions environ his ears like he's in a battleground, a _fucking_ battleground, so loud, so _mad,_ so _enshrilled_ in vigour and chaos and screams and shrieks _—_

The _earth_ gives way under Kiernan Alcraiz, like a gaping maw about to _devour_ , and he falls, and falls, and _falls—_

A rumble, an _explosion, a roar,_ a _cry._

And the earth's unholy shrieks swallow the dusk itself, and Kiernan Alcraiz is oh so dead.

_(Did he expect, really, to be anything other than that—at all?)_

* * *

**Gamemaker Kathvarine Guthrie.**

To say that the Gamemakers are in a _frenzy_ would be an understatement.

Because they… are. Because their monitors are _fizzing_ out, glitching every minute or so, _disruption_ so evident in their control panels. Because a dozen clatters of feet are abound, and she can _hear_ Elkavich's fury from her chair, her shouts and her agitation… practically _radiation_ off her skin. Because the force-field fluctuations are going more than _haywire_ , and Kathvarine _knows_ that they should be worried about that, and yet they aren't.

Because an earthquake was never in the plan for the Games. And aren't they trying so… hard… to cover everything up. To remain in _control._ Clawing and screeching and tugging for any pretence of power left.

And they _would_ try, they _need_ to. They can't _not_ remain in control, especially after _Guthrie,_ especially after Kathvarine's _father's_ died for the last Arena he made. And it's even more _imperative_ , now, because this Arena isn't all that different from the last.

Kathvarine knows. She's seen her father, in the last Games, when she was unofficially registered as his assistant. Knows every nook and cranny of the 55th Games, the _forest made of mist_ , at least, that was what he'd billed it. _A classic,_ he'd said to her, _but with a twist._ And his fingers splayed across the hologram, and it took not one moment for gold to creep across the magnitude of trees and grass, as if enveloped by Midas's touch.

 _So?_ he'd told her, a proud smirk lining his lips, _what do you think?_

 _It's wonderful,_ was what she said, and she filed that information away for… later _._

He revealed to her the secrets of his Arena. And she _learns,_ she _listens._ Learns the mechanism for _earthquakes,_ never used, which had undercut the grounds of the Games.

Three months was never enough time to make a new Arena. And Kathvarine is too aware of the _template_ that Elkavich reused.

(Not just the _template_.)

And Elkavich would want to fire her, would want to blame _her_ for the siege of the rebels, for the disruptions, for the _chaos_ that reigns here. Kathvarine's the scapegoat. She's the one assigned to fix this. She's damned if she does, damned if she doesn't.

(She bites down the smile that edges by the corner of her lips. It isn't as if she's guilty of earthquakes.)


	21. The Familial and The Familiar - Night 3, Part 1.

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

They're _separated._

And now she's _alone,_ dirt slathering her face and so many jags and cuts worn upon her skin, all for the Capitol's _caprice_. She's breathing so fucking _heavily_ and she's trudging across earth _,_ even as the muffled _explosions_ swallow the world and echoes of cannons ebb through the heavens _._

And she's so fucking _pissed._

What she'd least expected was a fucking _insurrection._ She was supposed to _control_ them, Dior Marini had the _power_ to, the _authority,_ the brittle _charm,_ the bitter _fight_ in her soul, she's _rational, smart,_ she's _driven,_ she's supposed to fucking lead the pack and—

And it had ended in _sedition,_ in insurrection, in a fight.

A near-fight.

(She'd wanted to drive that blade into Althea Ivory's heart. To _show_ her, to _end_ her, _look who's in control._ But the earth _exploded_ underneath her feet, the noise of a dozen _landmines_ rupturing the undergrowth. Bursting with fissures, ravines of their own, _frothing_ with life, with the creaks and coughs of earth, and the earth had crumbled underneath their feet. She and Althea were _uprooted,_ tossed into the merciless waves, ever-flowing, ever- _changing,_ never in stasis, never _stationary,_ flowing with dirt-rocks and rolling dust and flecks of golden specks—)

And the pack had _splintered. All_ of them away—oh, no, Dior couldn't see a single one, all uprooted from her sight, too _far,_ too _close,_ so _away,_ as she swept in the tides of dirt-grey.

(And cannons had erupted the skies, or perhaps it was the noise of the earth bursting in a frenzy underneath her—she didn't _know._ But despite the frenzied _everything_ around her it's, _oh no,_ her mind's _elsewhere._ )

They were supposed to _fight_ with her. _All_ of them were.

( _But it's cause she's not_ _ **enough,**_ _never_ _ **enough.**_ _She can't even keep a_ _ **pack**_ _together just like Mattie's year when the pack_ decayed _around her and her sister_ _ **ran**_ _before the chaos could commence. And Mattie acted as the trigger, really, cause then the pack murdered themselves in clashes red and raw and_ _ **that**_ _was what'd ousted Mattie_ _ **that**_ _was what had doomed her so it was thatthatthat and Dior was_ _ **determined**_ _not to repeat it this year but what is she now nothing but another Marini that_ fails _that_ falls that _dies)—_

And she was so ready to _kill,_ she had to _kill— (for Mattie for her_ _ **sister**_ _to claw her way onto the crown just a little more and then Dior'll_ _ **win**_ _—) but she_ _couldn't_ find the Eights, couldn't _avenge_ , and the earth's _alive_ under her feet and now what'll she do—

Earthquakes desecrate the Arena. Dior Marini wants to let a laugh erupt from her lips, so mad _,_ so uproarious _,_ so blithe and sarcastic _,_ because fucking _hell,_ she was doing the damn Gamemaker's deeds, she was doing what _Elkavich_ would've wanted her to do, and yet they're _thwarting_ her plans, they're _raising_ a dozen earthquakes and separating the Career pack, they're not letting her _hunt—_

— _(and_ _ **oh**_ _would you look at that? They're_ _ **stopping**_ _you and wouldn't the Gamemakers agree too, you're too fucking_ _ **animal**_ _to be trusted and controlled and oh, even moreso than the outer Districts, isn't_ _ **she,**_ _so driven by revenge, so_ _ **deadened**_ _by revenge, so screwed and so pissed and all-too-_ _ **much**_ _living in her skin—)_

—and the Gamemakers are supposed to be _helping_ her, she's doing what they _want_ of her, and fucking hell, then, if they _don't_ want her to hunt the rest of the _rebels_ so badly, then she _won't,_ their _loss,_ not her fucking fault.

(Like it wasn't her _fucking fault_ when Mattie volunteered because Dior _couldn't,_ so scared to, too fucking _wretched_ to volunteer _._ Like it wasn't her fucking problem when Mattie _died,_ like it isn't all because of _Dior,_ like it's not her fault, it's _never_ her fault, it _can't_ be her fault, Dior can't _cope_ if it's her fault— she knows already but she has to stay sane _she can't cope_ —)

And she's _spiralling,_ she's _furious,_ she's _laughing,_ there are _tears_ by her eyes, she's _sobbing,_ she's smiling, _oh,_ Dior Marini is so fucked up in the head, Dior Marini's such a fucking _wreck,_ she's _breaking down,_ isn't she _just,_ she's _always been_ breaking down, _dying_ —

(—long dead, really, before she started; ever since her sister was rent a corpse and she was left a cadaver, lurching in her life, she isn't _anything_ really—)

Dior Marini chokes the laughs out of her breaths, crazed-mad, and she steels her breath, lets the smile, too-bitter, twinge by her lips.

(Because, Dior Marini is _this:_ no different from Mattie Marini, of the 53rd Games. Confined in an Arena, environed in forests, brought up to volunteer; left without a pack, left with a will to _live,_ left with a shorting breath and a faltering _desire_ knowing that she'll die—)

And Dior knows she should fight, that she _has_ to fight, that she _needs_ to fight— for _Mattie's_ sake, for her own sake, for dignity to be restored in her family, for her to be able to meet her parents' eyes—but Dior's so _exhausted._ There is only one goal that keeps her _alive—_ and what is she, other than what it makes of her?

(And in her heart she knows this: Dior Marini will die.)

She's stumbling across the broken gilded-trees, and she's a machine, a well-oiled one, but she's _floundering._ She's exhausted of breath and yet there's a half-smile there on her face and sobs wrack her throat but they don't make her face and there's a _gleam_ in her eyes _,_ mad, _ferocious,_ furious, _despairing,_ broken—

_(Dior Marini will die.)_

And she'll be laughing, if she could, if not for the control that sets rigor mortis in her bones and the _coldness_ that must stay in her expression, she _isn't,_ she _is,_ she's dying, she's falling, might as well—

_(Dior Marini will—)_

And then there's a figure, amid the broken earth, as if called forth by a demon. And Chrys Gerhart catches her eye and a twinge of a half-smile wreathes Dior's lips.

_(Dior Marini will—)_

_No._

_No._

_**No.** _

She'll kill him. She'll kill him and then she'll kill the _Eights_ and that's how it'll be. She'll fight them all. She'll _live._ No. Dior Marini will not die.

Dior Marini will _survive._

She raises her bolas and throws.

* * *

**Chrys Gerhart. District 1.**

Kiernan Alcraiz was swallowed alive in front of his eyes, and Chrys Gerhart is _breathless_ and _terrified._

(And Kiernan Alcraiz _dies,_ with eyes so wide _,_ a shock and a shell of himself and Chrys Gerhart couldn't _comfort_ him, for the words had tangled his lips and he was _speaking_ but Kiernan wasn't _hearing_ and then the world fell apart into pieces, desecrating and dying, like ruins plunging into an abyss. Chrys _screamed_ when _Kiernan_ went under, swallowed with dirt-streaked eyes and a reaching hand like he's clawing out from the graves and his _breaths_ trying to breathe and—)

And he'd broken away. Tidedoverand brought along the dross and sea of earth and boulders and he was being washed _away_ and screams and yells and _roars_ had torn at his throat just as _pain_ flared in his once-arm and he'd yelled and _roared_ and _thrashed_ but it wasn't _enough,_ nothing would be _ever_ enough against an _earthquake—_

And Kiernan Alcraiz had died _scared of him, had died_ terrified, had _died—_

(And then it's Emilio that haunts Kiernan's so shell-shocked face, like the moment Chrys dropped the news that he'll be _volunteering,_ and Emilio had looked at him _,_ shock inhabiting his eyes, _no, no, no, Chrys, why? I don't wanna_ _ **lose**_ _you in there, why_ _ **,**_ _I don't_ _ **understand**_ _, why are you_ _ **doing this**_ _—_ )

A _laugh,_ a _laugh-not-quite-a-laugh_ shakes his _lungs_ and his _throat_ and he's so _bitter_ and _broken_ and oh, fucking hell, of course…

(His family flashes in front of his mind. The dreams they had — _pretty_ dreams, beautiful dreams, dreams-so-many-of-them, of Melissa becoming a fashion designer and of Julius becoming their resident future author and of getting his father outta that hellhole job. All the dreams he's _here_ for, that he's _volunteered_ for, laugh back at him.)

For he can't _achieve_ that. He's missing a chunk of his arm and he's _dying,_ he really is, no matter how much he _tries_ to deny it, he's bleeding out and the blood's making him lightheaded and the edges of deliriousness eat at his head and he wants to _sleep,_ really, oh he _does…_

… he's _dying_ and the _Games_ won't ever end in three days and what's he _thinking,_ really, he's going to fucking _die,_ he'll perish and he'll be nothing more, _fucking_ hell, _he's killed Six girl,_ but it isn't _enough_ , is it? He's not gonna _make it back,_ he's not gonna be a _Victor,_ even if his destiny was always to be in the Games—

(—to be in the Games to _die_ in the Games he was the best but he was never really Victor material, was he—)

—and he's going to _die_ and Chrys Gerhart's going to _die_ and he was never really going to survive, was he, really—

He's _laughing,_ he's _shaking,_ there are tears in his eyes and a shake in his breath and _oh,_ Chrys _knows_ —

He will _break._

(He can't break. He needs to _survive._ He has the world to meet up to. He has the judgement and the _sneers_ of the stupid rich kids back at home to defeat. He has Clay who supports him, he has _Nemesis_ who watches him. He has to make back to her, and maybe then he'll maybe confess—)

(—and he has his family, he always has his _family._ Their faces; shimmering in _pain_ , in _hope._ Of Melissa's held breaths, of his father's fears, _Chrys, I can't bear to lose you too,_ of Emilio's quivers and his too-fast breaths, _please, please, Chrys, live, I don't wanna see you die—_ )

No. Chrys Gerhart must _fight._

He must. It's his _destiny,_ he knows. It's what he _should_ do.

(Can he still fight?)

He raises his eyes at Dior Marini, a dozen meters away, and there's a weak smile that prods at his lips. He'd seen her, in the distance; he'd seen her bola throw, and he didn't even bother to duck, or sidestep, or run; it'd veered off, anyways, struck in the ground beside him. Dior, so taken by rage: her aim would always be so off.

And besides: to _run,_ now? After _everything?_

It was about time.

Dior's steps are cold, amid the quivers of ebbing earthquakes that shake the grounds underneath them—if a little calmer, if a little more dormant.

"Chrys Gerhart."

Her eyes are so gelid, like petrified stone. Chrys feels something quirk by his lips; how _classic of Dior_.

"It's nice to see you here," he says, half-grinning, half spiteful. Because she's his _enemy._ She's a _killer,_ a remorseless one at that, and he can _fight_ her without regret. And that's what he'll _do,_ he'll _kill_ her, cause all she gives a _shit_ about's hunting down the outliers, and he'll _end_ her, and for the better—even if he's _dying,_ even if he can't survive for his family, he can _fight_ , he can be a _hero,_ at least, with her _death—_

And so he rivets his gaze on her and exhales a breath, lets a half-wry smile tinge his lips. "Stopped caring about the Eights?" he asks, and Dior's eyes _flare,_ and she scoffs—

"What do you know about that?"

"Why do you care so much if they live or _die?_ "

"And why should you care about my _reasons?_ I can't imagine yours would be any _nobler,_ Chrys Gerhart."

"I'm doing this for my family. Don't pretend you understand," he says, quietly, but there's a quality of ferocity which underlines his words. Because Dior _couldn't_ know, would _never_ understand _selflessness_. She won't understand what he's _doing,_ why he's _here,_ wouldn't understand it's all for his _family._ Chrys _scoffs,_ waits, cause she's just another rich kid of the Academy, volunteering to _win,_ for the _prestige,_ gloryhounds and vainglorious freaks—

—and Dior Marini laughs.

"Then our reasons are the same," she says. Dior unsheathes her blade, and she cocks her head, and her eyes are the coldest glare from the coldest _mires_ he'd ever seen—

"I'm doing this for _Mattie Marini_. And you're not about to get in my way of it."

The _irony_ hits him like a goddamn fucking _truck._ His breath's shaky, and he swears more laughs makes it to his breaths. _Oh, fucking hell. Of_ _ **course**_ _._

And Dior's eyes are too _cold_ when she _strikes_. Her blade sinks with a squelch into his chest.

 _No._ He won't die now.

Chrys roars, jumps, and struggles a few steps back. _His axe, he needs his axe—_ and he grips it in his hand and lunges and strikes back, and a glimmering red slash forms up her thigh. Dior buckles, but she _snarls,_ and he makes it close, close, he just needs to _decapitate_ her and it's _over with—_

—and her blade goes through his stomach.

He screams. He screams and slashes again, _frenzied,_ and a fresh streak makes it up her chest, and it doesn't _matter_ that their fight's so pathetic, a pithy show for the Careers, what matters is that he's getting more wounds _in,_ he's _killing,_ he's _going_ to kill her, _he has to has to_ _ **has to**_ _—_

But it's not enough.

Dior slashes his working arm open. It is so easy, so _stupidly_ easy how quickly his axe clatters to the ground. And as metal tangs his mouth his legs give out from him, and it's then when it registers how much _blood's_ leaving his skin, just how much he's _bleeding…_

He's dying. Exsanguination: sped-up by a metal end.

His laugh is so bitter _._

He volunteered out of his heart; he's _surviving_ in the Games, to help his family survive in One, It's an exchange. And the _Academy_ were to achieve that, it was _his_ means to an end, he was supposed to make it.

And Chrys wanted the _money,_ he'd wanted _stability,_ and if he admits it, he'd wanted the _gold,_ too, the prestige and the awe of everybody else in the Academy and _himself,_ proven to the world. But his family will never get _glory._ Not _now—_ not with how he'd _failed._

(He thinks of them at home. Emilio, whispering under his breath, _oh no, Chrys, oh no,_ Melissa, covering Julius's eyes, Juno, exhaling a frantic cry, and his _father,_ Lancer, pushing his calloused hands well-worn like valleys into his hair—)

 _Regrets_ overwhelm his heart. He's so fucking _stupid_ , 'cause now Lancer'll have to work overtime, despite his shitty bones _,_ and Melissa'll feel like it's her fault, and Juno and Julius'll have too many fucking nightmares, and Emilio'll feel so _broken_ , and why did Chrys ever _think that_ he should've volunteered-—

(Because there was so much to lose if he hadn't. There was so much to lose if he did. And it was hopeless, really, but he could only _wish_ for the best outcome, and the Games were his destiny, he'd always _seen_ it like that, so could they really blame _him,_ really, when all he wanted to do was to _help them live,_ damned if he _did,_ damned if he _didn't—)_

_Damned._

And another laugh razes his throat and another sob-half cry, and he's _disintegrating_ , he's _destroyed_ , he's dying, he's… _oblivion_.

A cannon crackles and Chrys Gerhart is rent so dead, that white knight _blighted_ by his plight.

The ghosts of a dozen tearful faces raise up the night.

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

He takes shelter, somewhere, in a nowhere-place.

(He had been _sure_ that he had died. _Death_ would've rent his skin eventually in the Arena: it was just fact _._ Kiernan Alcraiz did not have a fighting chance. He's the Gamemakers' _pet,_ he's their _example,_ he's their little clarion call— _look at what'll happen if you decide to rebel. Look at what'll happen._ You don't want that.)

He'd burned, the moment he volunteered, red florid on his face and his breaths too-choky. _Resentment_ ate at his chest; _rage_ in his veins; _humiliation_ painting his skin and creasing his lips into _snark_ and a snarl and a too frustrated _laugh._

(And wasn't it such a fucking humiliation—to _die_ live on-screen in the middle of a goddamn panic attack, a _shell_ of his former self and _struggling,_ always _fucking_ struggling to breathe. Just like how they'd revelled in the way Maeve stumbled upon her words and paused too fucking long for all to see, not even _three_ months ago, they must enjoy seeing Alcraiz after Alcraiz _suffer._ )

Wasn't it a _perfect_ end? Kiernan Alcraiz _,_ collapsing in a panic, dying cause of the hurricane of shit in his chest and cause of the _earthquake_ that ate him alive from outside. More humiliating than Maeve's death, _taken by a mutt,_ he'd die panicking about a death, he'd die fucking _spiralling,_ and _wouldn't_ the Capitol relish so much in that—

But he didn't. He hadn't. Swept away, _swallowed_ under earth, and he'd struggled, he'd _thrashed._ But as quickly as the ground had swallowed him it had spat him out again: disoriented and _dazed_ and with so many cuts on his skin but _alive._ And now Kiernan Alcraiz takes shelter in a nowhere-place. Amid the golden woodlands, so _false,_ really, so _saturated_ in gold, so fucking _excessive_. And he's underneath its boughs, catching his breathing against the crevasse of a tree.

(It's stopped. He didn't really realise it, at first: because the lands trembled still, but they'd stopped moving. At least—not as vigorously, not with so much _volatility._ But they leave their mark upon the lands; jagged earth-out-of-rock, spires busting up from ground like they were alien creations, but too familiar: nature unfettered, _unleashed_.)

Kiernan Alcraiz takes shelter in a nowhere place. But it is a recognisable place; a special place. There are no spires forcing the ground up. It's as if this area were left undisturbed by the earthquakes; _deliberately_ undisrupted _._

As if it were a resting place.

(And that thought _unnerves_ him, that thought's so _uncomfortable_ in his chest, _no,_ Kiernan doesn't like it at all. Because he can't think about what it means, _no,_ he won't _think—)_

Instead, he forces his eyes to wander across the scenery. He'd never really taken the Arena fully _in—_ it was beautiful, but in the ways arenas were beautiful: tinged with falsity. It was _grand,_ yes, but only in the way which the Capitol was grand; it was _gorgeous,_ yes, but never like natural scenery. And he'd never realised, not really…

Just how superficial it was.

(It's _uncomfortable,_ this thought also, but he can't not _focus_ on it. How could the Capitol build an Arena in three months? They'd Reaped kids _perennially_ because construction's at least _twelve months._ And sometimes it took even longer—Quell Arenas, other Arenas, hell, so many Arenas had spent more than two years in the making. How did… how did _Elkavich_ conjure this one up so quickly?)

(Did _she_ conjure this Arena out of nowhere?)

Goosebumps creep over his skin, and the _deja-vu_ swathes his skin. Thoughts race across Kiernan's mind and his breaths constrict in his throat—

(—and he's looking at Maeve, who's smooshing clay bits and pieces on one another, and her artistic skills have never been pretty, 'cause she's making a so _stupidly_ lopsided head. And he rolls his eyes, _what the hell are you doing?_ and she's laughing, _umm, duh. It doesn't look… like you. I don't... like it. I'm tryin' again!_ )

Trying again.

It strikes him at once. What they've done with the 56th Games.

(What they've made of the _55th._ )

They want a _reprise._ A _redoing._ A fresh-slate; they want a _forgetting._ The 56th would supersede the 55th, and that would be done so easily.

Especially when they used the same _fucking_ Arena.

He doesn't know why it takes him so long to realise it. But it smacks him in the face, and it makes _sense_. From the _forests_ to the _winds—_ oh, aside from the dross of gold they'd doused over the place _(as if with a shiny glean they'll be able to forget fuck-all)_ —it's the damn _same._

And _oh,_ it's so fucking _funny (—it's not, really, it's never fucking funny, but it's funny how the universe likes to play jokes on the Alcraiz's),_ and Kiernan's half-laughing, already, a quake in his chest already, as he sits and exhales and breathes in so much fucking _air,_ the _freshest_ air, only the ones made by _winds_ too-cold, winds that reigned an Arena not so long ago before—

And he knows this place. It's embedded in his mind: from the too redolent lights to the glint of bare dirt-ground underneath and the _forests_ that shroud all in-between.

He's seen it on screen.

Kiernan Alcraiz takes shelter in Maeve's death place.

(Why is it so _funny_ to him?)

* * *

**Placements.**

12th Place. Unnamed tribute. D9M. [Died to earthquake.]

11th Place. Unnamed tribute. D7F. [Died to earthquake.]

10th Place. Chrys Gerhart. D1M. [Killed by Dior Marini.]


	22. The Maddened and The Exhausted - Night 3, Part 2.

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

Althea Ivory trudges over the earth and salt they've made, and she is oh so fucking _done_ with the Games.

Blood streaks her face like fucking whiskers and mildew. Blood runs down her arms and blood breaks over her body and it is everywhere. It is not hers.

It is the earth's. What a _sight_ it was—to see Seven girl up in the branches, crushed between two craning trees, and Althea, sunken under earth, felt the drop of the bloodsac drench her in red _._ And she'd nearly choked on dirt, choked on _gore,_ and what a sight it must've been for the Capitol audience.

A tribute, wrought in another's blood. Disgusting, fetid, _horrendous_ blood.

Althea survived. She'd pushed out of dirt and the grave six-feet they've tried to drag her _under,_ and she breathed, _alive_ again. But she's battered and she's _weary_ and she's not _broken,_ no, Panem _forbid,_ but she's groggy with pain and her limbs are like sandpaper and she is so _done_ with the Games.

_No. You can't be._

Althea Ivory inhales a breath. And she shuts her eyes and she thinks of home, of _District Four,_ cheering her on. She thinks about Kani Fairchild, waiting, watching, _waiting_ for her to return, to come into her arms, to kiss her, for them to live in their future home—together, _together,_ never alone.

No. And the Games might've _grated_ on her soul, might've battered her body with its earthquake, might've _demolished_ her, might've grated on her _mind—(their chokes, so loud, their breaths, too fast, life-liquid seeping away from their skin)_ —but Althea Ivory _won't_ give up. She can't give up. Her will is _strong_ and she is _strong_ and to give up, to give _in_ is to admit that she's _weak,_ and that is the farthest thing she is.

 _No,_ Althea Ivory is not weak. No, Althea Ivory is never weak. And they might think she's weak because of how she reacted to _death_ (... stock-still, she'd tried, but her _emotions_ still bubbled up from below, they _see,_ she's sure...) but she isn't weak, she _isn't,_ and she'll show them, they'll _learn,_ they'll _know…_

(… does she really need to prove that to them?)

Althea stills. She rests herself against a shattered tree trunk, pulls down her knapsack, takes a swig of water, splashes some down her wounds, and she closes her eyes. Tries to reorient herself.

No. Althea Ivory is not weak. They've thrown earthquakes and _flesh_ and blood at her: but here Althea is, still the Games are not what she had planned right now, but she knows she will rise up to any challenge they provoke her with: she knows that she'll bring the _Victor's_ crown back.

They might think she's weak: but for the first time in forever, Althea Ivory _doesn't care._ No: they have seen her brave storm and fire and _rage,_ they have seen her endure _everything._ They've thrown a fucking _earthquake_ at her and here she is, still _standing,_ and oh, she's mad— _oh of course she's mad they decided to toss a goddamn earthquake_ _at the Career pack—_ but she's still _standing,_ and honestly?

Fuck them.

If they want to call her weak then there's something wrong with _their_ heads. Not her. Never her. And what Rhodos McNamara says sticks in her mind.

_Feeling makes you human. Feeling doesn't make you weak._

No: no, she is not weak for feeling. She _isn't_. And perhaps the Capitol and the Districts and all would think she is. Perhaps they want her to prove herself.

(And she _did_ want to. That was why she had entered the Games, in the first place: to _fight,_ to _live,_ to _survive,_ to _show_ them. And that's what she's still here for: to fight, to live, to _survive._ )

(… does she still want to _show_ them?)

No. What only rings true to Althea is _this_. They don't matter to her. She doesn't need to _prove_ herself to them. She knows her worth; so _what_ if they didn't know, so _what_ if they couldn't tell, so _what, what if?_ And the entirety of her District could _laugh_ at her, could _scorn_ her, could _mock_ her from their world of cares: but Althea doesn't give a shit about them anymore. They could say she's weak, but fuck that. She's done with them. She's done with _all_ of them.

Oh, no. If she wins: she wins for herself, and herself only.

(Only her; only for _Kani._ Her District could drown in a blaze, for all she cares; the Capitol, so _consumptive,_ could gorge themselves on the gore she makes. But not for a _moment_ would she let them think that she's doing it for them—oh, oh _no_.)

(No, it was never for them. It'll never be for them. It won't be: not anymore.)

Althea Ivory lives only for herself.

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

Rhodos McNamara is untethered by the earthquake.

One moment he's _standing,_ one moment he's _there,_ and the next his feet's shoved underneath him and the cascade of _rocks_ tumbled underneath him like water _,_ and he'd let out a string of yells and tried to steady himself, then-and- _again,_ but it's too much, it _was_ too much, and he couldn't do anything but stay there amid the roaring earth, eyes wide open and teeth chattering as he was swept with the tide of dirt.

He couldn't remember how it stopped - just that gradually the rocks tapered down, gradually the earth rolled offside and stayed grounded, and then he's been cradled amid rock - blisters and blood over his body and his breath barely-caught. But he was alive.

And then he'd met the mouth of a cave.

He doesn't think when he stumbles in. And it almost doesn't register when he sees the Threes in front of him.

 _Uncertainty_ plagues his chest. _Hi,_ he wants to say, breathlessly, and some stupid part of him wants to wave; but his limbs are tense, and so's his muscles, because the Career instinct in him's _wound_ up, ready to attack, to _explode_ into action, like a spring about to release _._

Three girl and Three boy exchange a _look._ And he feels his own muscles tense _(feels them coil, feels them tighten, an animal, ready to leap, hit_ _ **,**_ _tear—)_

Hostility's contorted on Three girl's face, as she gazes at her District partner.

"He's a Career… isn't he, Daniel?"

Three boy— _Daniel_ —looks back at Three girl.

"Yes—yeah, he… is. Don't _look_ at him like that, Ryleigh."

They stand at the end of the cave, _watching_ him, and Rhodos realises that _he's_ the one in power here. He's the one at the mouth of the cave—he's the one _blocking them off._ And he's the one that's a _Career,_ that'll throw a spear and finish them off…

But he doesn't move.

(What is he supposed to do?)

They're _hostile._ Three boy and Three girl. That's what he presumes. But the more he _observes,_ as he takes into account the twitches of Daniel's fingers, the shakes which overwhelm Ryleigh's frame _,_ Rhodos realises that it isn't hostility that lines their features… it's uncertainty, it's fear _._

(... _uncertainty?_ )

He stills. Rhodos isn't sure what he's going to do, really, but his eyes wander down to their _bodies,_ to see if they have any weapons on them…

… and he recognises the tattoos on their forearms.

 _Surprise_ rattles his chest. It overtakes instinct, logicality, movement _—_ over everything. Rhodos stands there, _astounded,_ staring… and the Threes stare right back at him, but it's not hostility or uncertainty that lights their eyes now. No, it's _curiosity._

"... do you think he knows?"

Rhodos's eyes jump towards Three girl—Ryleigh. And Daniel seems just as wary, but curiosity tinges his eyes, too.

"... you think he's one of us?"

Rhodos can't breathe. His eyes turn between them, and he doesn't know what to _say,_ what to _think._ He _stands,_ stock-still, and wills his breaths to leave his body. _Breathe in, breathe out. Act normal. Nothing's wrong. Breathe in, breathe out…_

"... how else could he know?"

They look at him. He looks right back. Ryleigh nudges Daniel, and he rolls his eyes at her. But Daniel's eyes raise to meet Rhodos's, and he stills. Daniel ventures a breath—

"What's your name?"

"I'm Rhodos," he responds, automatic. "Rhodos McNamara. I'm from… I'm from District Four."

"We know," says Ryleigh, but the edge of her voice quivers. It's smacked back into his face, then, that all of this is bravado.

"Are you a Vulture?"

_A… vulture?_

"What do you mean?" he splutters, half-disbelieving.

"Yknow..." Ryleigh attempts again, like she's trying hard not to say the word itself. "... all of, like, what's been happening. You know what I mean."

"Oh," he says. "You mean the… rebellion."

Ryleigh's eyes go wide with panic, as she clasps her hands over her mouth. And a sinking stone drops down Rhodos's stomach, because _dammit, he shouldn't have said that—_

"Yeah," Daniel says. "Exactly that."

"Daniel!"

Daniel shrugs, but his eyes flicker in sympathy. "C'mon, Ry. Everyone knows. I mean—" and he lets out a breath, a smile, almost, if it isn't so _weary,_ "—they sent the _earthquakes._ So that means they're coming soon. We just have to wait it out…"

"Shut _up,_ Daniel," Ryleigh says. "They wouldn't want anyone to know." With that, she shoots a very pointed look at Rhodos, though the worry's barely concealed on the fifteen-year old's face.

Unease flickers in his stomach. Rhodos McNamara had never liked rebellion. Not when it had stained Four… when the _people,_ so discontented, had shouted their unease on the streets. And he'd flinched, and he'd averted his eyes, every time they erupted into _shootouts._ Carmine had splattered like exploding fruit across the ground.

But something nags at the back of his head. _You're not in Four, now, Rhodos. This… this is different._ And something else runs down his skin, and it's vertiginous and uneasy but it's also strangely intoxicating, as he looks at the Threes, and looks back at the Arena.

"So, uh… are you coming in?"

He closes his eyes. He lets out a breath.

_I can't believe I'm doing this._

Rhodos lifts his head. He nods.

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

Ten girl dies by her hands.

That is what is on her mind, after the… explosion.

Her flesh is stinging and it is like an ember's scorched her insides. The earthquakes have not been pleasant on her body.

Ten girl died by her hands.

Hera knows that people are haunted _._ She's seen the way Careers looked after murders (triumphant, typically, but like ghosts dangle in their eyes). And nobody's forgotten the way _Madison Saros_ had looked after she'd… seen Maeve.

But Hera Dalenka hadn't realised how deeply it _reached._ Not even closing her eyes could keep her away from the scene; not even trying to keep herself confined could help. Not even then.

(Cause what she feels and sees and what haunts her wakening is the image of Ten girl's death, gargling on her blood, _death-sent,_ by her, Hera Dalenka, _Hera Dalenka,_ and she's mortified and she's horrified and she's _apologising,_ she _wishes,_ she wants to _rewind time,_ I'm so _sorry_ it wasn't—that wasn't what I've wanted, I've _killed_ you, I'm…)

_Why did she do it?_

And perhaps she could chalk it up to Dior and coercion; perhaps it was simply that. But…

No.

She cannot exonerate herself.

Her _death_ was Hera's fault. Just as how the Sixes' death was her fault, too; because she'd let the _words_ about the party spill out of her lips, because she _allowed_ herself to speak, and she's… what is _she,_ a _bastard,_ a _killer,_ a _thoughtless bitch,_ someone that should just _die_ (... why was it okay to sacrifice others' lives to survive?)

She squashes the helpless laugh about to arise beside her lips.

Perhaps she could blame Dior for Ten girl's death, but was it not precisely her fault? She was _voiceless:_ not a word of protest. Just like Rhodos, always _complaisant_ , always _complicit,_ and she hadn't really thought about how similar to he she was before, but they're both so… voiceless.

No voice; no chords to speak; no autonomy _._ Hera Dalenka dangles upon a puppeteer's string; they _mean_ best, of course, they love _her,_ and she loves them too. They feast upon her success, they _praise_ her ruffling show, oh, Hera, how _proud_ of you we are. We're so happy for you. You're so _good,_ you're so _amazing,_ you're so _perfect_ —

Hera's always lived up to their show. Competent. Confident. Sober. Okay. The winner with a winning smile. Redeeming Two from its disenkindled past.

(She's always lived up to their show. And she'd _liked_ it, too. They loved her, and she loved them, why wouldn't she do what her _parents_ said, what her _Academy_ said, what her _friends_ cheered her on to do. And so what if there was a little emptiness in her heart—so _what_ if there was a sadness that she couldn't materialise, so _what_ if she didn't know what to feel about herself, so _what_ if she tried a little bit of dust and snow everyday cause that's the only little bit of freedom she'd get—so _what_ if?)

She'd always… she'd always…

… what had she always been?

(She's a _killer,_ she's a _victim,_ she's _voiceless._ And _this_ her is meant to be the best her there is, _Hera-Dalenka-the-Victor_ is meant to be for her own _good,_ meant to make her _happy,_ make her _better,_ make her _more,_ but she's just...)

She's just voiceless.

Perhaps she should let tears fall from her eyes, let a smile dance by her lips, at her new revelation _,_ at what this should mean to her, but she's nothing but… quiet, now.

(Voiceless.)

No, not voiceless.

Just… contemplating.

Just… quiet.

Hera exhales. Her eyes wander round the Arena's landscape. Rocks protrude up through the grounds, trees are uprooted, dangling like grotesque-glowing blossoms… and she's traversing between it all, _in her thoughts,_ and she gazes upon the Arena, a place they're meant to _conquer,_ to _raze,_ to _perish to die to let a dozen cries alive..._

(Does she still want to win?)

It'd be a lie if she said that she wasn't... impartial to the idea of death. Hera doesn't know what it makes her ( _passively suicidal)_ but as she _traverses_ and as an exhale pushes onto her lips and as she looks round the world around her…

(Is it so painful to just… die?)

They've taken everything away from her. They've taken her voice; her goals; they've taken her _sense of self._

What is Hera Dalenka, really?

(Her mother's dolly to play dress-up with.)

(Her father's future Victor.)

(Her friend's… something.)

She's… unimportant. She's voiceless. She doesn't matter.

No. They've just taken everything from her.

Hera exhales. Something plays by the corner of her lips, and there's only one word that resounds in her head.

 _No._ No. If she's nothing anyway, if she's just what they've made of her, then... damned if they make her a Victor.

(And the Hera who volunteered, with a smile on her lips and a fire in her heart to make her family _proud_ is nothing but an eradicated spectre. She had died, as Ten girl had died, amid the wreaths of golden forests and mist.)

She's different, now. She's a _killer,_ she's a _victim,_ she's _dead—_ damned if they make her a Victor. And she wants to _live,_ maybe, the Hera Dalenka that'd stepped up the volunteering stage, regal steps echoing across wood and wood, might've, but… she doesn't want to, now.

Not anymore.

(And if Hera Dalenka will die anyway… she won't let them twist her into anything they want her to be. She won't let them make her kill; she won't let them make her kill more than she's had to, already, she won't let them make her make others suffer, she won't let them, no, she won't _.)_

Hera Delanka may die _;_ no, _she will_ die, but she won't let them control won't let herself die as what they'd wished her to be: that perfect Career, that girl without weakness, that girl that was strong and vicious and _strong_ and _able_ and _capable_ and _Victor material._

No: Hera Dalenka will be herself _._

She may be Hera Dalenka, _perfect Career;_ she may be Hera Dalenka, _drug addict…_ and she doesn't really have an identity, but she is Hera Dalenka. She's compassionate _._ She's kind _._ And yes she's _addicted_ and she's _complaisant_ and she's _voiceless,_ but—)

But not anymore.

She's in a different place, now, she realises. Whilst before there were the remnants of the earthquake littering the grounds, now she's in vast patch of land... undisrupted. Almost _normal,_ the hollow golden trees, and it is then when she sees a hunched figure in the distance.

She finds Kiernan Alcraiz sobbing against wood.

"Are you okay?" Hera whispers, and the words which she'd wished she'd said too-many-days ago on the train spills out of her lips.

Kiernan's shaking. There's not even a scoff that tangs his lips, he's just _crying,_ he's just _breaking down,_ and…

Pain twists in her heart.

"Hey," she says, softly, and she kneels next to Kiernan. He doesn't seem to hear her. His sobs are just as _harsh,_ just as _continuous_ , and Hera weighs the upsides and downsides of placing a comforting hand on his arm.

She knows Kiernan doesn't like to be touched.

(But when had he last been comforted? Cared for? Held?)

And so Hera brushes a hand on Kiernan's arm. He tenses, but he doesn't flinch. And suddenly a small cry chokes out of his lips.

"Maeve," he whispers, through hiccups, and there's so much _disbelief_ that stays in his throat, " _Maeve, Maeve_ —you're here, you're _okay…"_ and then the sobs _wrack_ through his chest,"I'm sorry—I'm _sorry,_ I'm sorry, I—I hated you, I'm—I was so _mad,_ I'm so sorry, I missed you—"

"It's okay," Hera whispers, even though she _knows_ it isn't. Because Kiernan's crying aside, they're in the Games, and he is so broken, he's calling for a name, he's calling for _his sister's_ name, _Maeve Alcraiz…_

(What did a _child_ do to deserve the Games?)

"It's okay," Hera says, quietly, even though it isn't. She closes her eyes and folds Kiernan in her chest, lets him sob into her, and she's murmuring the same words into Kiernan's ear, _"It's okay.",_ and his sobs seem to increase, and a pit sloshes in Hera's stomach, it's _agonising,_ and she murmurs the same words over and over again, even as Kiernan sobs in his delusion, even as he breaks.


	23. The Cogent and The Inchoate - Day 4.

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

Safe to say that things are... awkward after that.

(He doesn't really wanna talk, think, he doesn't wanna _consider_ … whatever that was. They'd call it a _breakdown_ on national television, of course, broadcast across the _Capitol—_ how _funny, look at the child falling apart, we've all been waiting for it! Savour it, look, it's retribution for the trashfire mess that was the last Games—)_

Kiernan's breath tightens.

And now… Hera Dalenka's his ally.

(Ally is a word he tentatively uses. He's been _allies_ with Chrys Gerhart; acquaintances, really, (maybe friends), and _didn't_ that just end so well.)

Hera… Hera's his ally, he supposes, now. After what'd happened… before. But he isn't too sure, because _ally's_ too close, too _personal,_ it's just one step away from _friends,_ and he can't have that for _her._ He can't lose any more.

So. Hera's his… District partner. That works.

They move through the Arena. Kiernan isn't sure where they're going, and he doesn't think that Hera knows either. But they're both _moving,_ both _restless,_ and for the better—he doesn't wanna think about that place.

(That cruel fucking _joke_ of a place. Did they leave it there for him to discover?)

He squeezes his eyes shut. _No._ Don't _think,_ don't _think,_ don't _think…_

(... why can't he think?)

It's _obvious_. So the Capitol'll be _reminded_ of his breakdown?

(... because the scene of the death's place brought him all back. Back to _her_ death. And it's brought _anger, rage, ferocity…_ morph into _agony_ , into _pain,_ into _memory.)_

Into memory.

(Of _her,_ waltzing up the stage, stars recrudescent on her lips, eyes gleaming at the world at her fingertips. Of her, upon the chariots, brazen and proud against the Capitol and the government and the _people_ that bowed before her. Of her, in the _Games,_ flirting with One girl, shanking her District partner, saving the _Sixes_ about to die, kissing One girl, grinning all the while, starring in the Arena like she was the only one that mattered, flaunting a _fuck you_ to the world by being the _least_ of what a Career should be... )

(She eludes him. But really... does _Maeve_ matter anymore?)

And, for the first time in forever, _clarity_ sets into the mist of a mess that's always pounded in Kiernan's head.

He will die.

(He will _die._ And _rage_ had stoked in his stomach before, _rage_ had lighted his skin and burned him through, so much _rage,_ too much _rage—_ and it surges through him now, _teases_ him, _taunts_ him, _come on, give in, succumb to your anger your pain your_ _ **madness**_ _, give in, sink in, relish it_ , and Kiernan shuts his eyes and wills, _wills_ the moment to pass.)

He's going to die.

It's not because he's weak. It isn't because he's _useless_ or because he's _incompetent._ It isn't his _fault_.

(And he'd have _scoffed,_ the moment _here—_ cursed _her,_ his _sister,_ his fucking _sister's_ why he's here… but neither is it Maeve's fault. Not really. Sure, she'd volunteered on a fucking _whim,_ victim to the parasites of her mind _,_ and she'd done _shit_ that would've made even the stupidest Career _groan,_ and she'd _fucked-up_ to the seven heavens _,_ she'd died and become a denizen of hell for the hellof it, but… wasn't it the Capitol, who'd planted him here?)

And _…_ as much as he'd like to blame her _(because it'd be just so much easier_ _to blame her; her sister that thought she was the sky and volunteered to make the heavens her reckoning)_ \- he _can't_.

(Because no matter how hard he tries to _pretend_ , how much he tries to resent her, no matter _how_ much he scoffs _,_ how much he curses her and claims that he hates her and how he's oh so happy she _died_ — he _loves_ her. He loves her cause she was his sister and… then she'd gone off and got high in the skies _obscured by the clouds did you think that her grinning face wouldn't emblazon the night_ and… she'd _volunteered_ , and he doesn't know what she's _thinking,_ not then, his mom _says_ she's volunteered for _them,_ all he sees is she's volunteered away from the chaos and pain and _pain_ at home, and—)

Maybe Kiernan's here, and maybe it's completely her fucking fault that he's here. But after her death he'd let pieces and bits of her dissipate one and away from his brain. Till she's a scapegoat, a caricature in his mind, a figure that he could blame. And because she was never there at home. And because she was a ghost. And because she was not even there, not even in her death. He could.

(... aren't they so happy? That he's cursing his sister rather than _them?_ )

Kiernan feels something prod by his lips; a scoff. _Fucking—fucking hell. That's why you don't think_.

But his breath's so heavy, and so are his steps, and so he doesn't say anything at all.

He doesn't think he can.

It's then when he stops. At a _divide._ There's… the quivering _earthquake_ that stands on the other side. And it's not _strong,_ not at all, but it's still an undercurrent under the grounds like it's been electrified. Then there's _him,_ and _Hera,_ still within the safe zone that marks… the vicinity of _her_ death.

"That's..." he swallows.

"I think we should turn back," Hera says.

"Yeah," he says, quietly. And another scoff almost upturns his lips, cause of _course,_ the _Capitol_ would want him to stay there.

(But it is less resentful than it is saddened. And Kiernan should not think, and yet...)

* * *

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

She's killed Chrys Gerhart.

She's killed _Chrys Gerhart._

Her _District partner._ Her _biggest_ competitor. Her _rival_ since day one; her _enemy,_ her so-called _companion,_ her _deserter,_ her _challenger,_ her would-be-murderer, had she not—

And she's _lucid — yes,_ _ **yes**_ _she's lucid - and she's_ laughing, _hard,_ she's exhaling and she's choking on her breaths—

Not because it's funny. Well; perhaps, to an _extent._ It isn't funny. She's laughing because there's dust in her _lungs_ and there's joy that cracks at her heart just as there is _stress_ and she's feeling…

There is mist in her _head_ , and she feels so _bleary,_ and her movements are sluggish, even though there's a smile that twists upon her lips. And she's _stumbling_ , she's _groggy_ like she'd just woken up on another plane, and there's something that cakes her mouth, like a mouthful of cocaine and there's mist that crests her through, and she's feeling…

(... something. If she can think through the fog in her head, maybe it's the slashes that Chrys got on her legs, that seep down her skin, that spiral in red stars upon the gold-tipped grass, maybe it's that which makes her feel. Perhaps it is that which affects her; perhaps it is that which presses grogginess into her head, a discomfort into her chest, a shrill in her blood, a laugh in her lungs.)

Dior is _overwhelmed,_ but she's _relishing_ in it all. Feeling tides over her skin; it _fulfils_ her, it _satiates_ her, it imbues her in _life_ as much as it does in a blear _,_ and it's so _nice_ (not really not really not _really,_ but it'd be a lie if she didn't admit that she liked feeling...)

Nine more dead and then she'll triumph; nine more dead and then she'll be sitting on the Victor's throne, with a crown looping her head. A little bit more, a _few_ deaths more, and it's a stepping stone further; some _more,_ some _more..._

(And then she's back to the _end,_ where Chrys Gerhart was _suffocating,_ dying in a _death_ she'd knighted, and then the words he'd spluttered out of his lips stays on her too, _you'll never understand why I volunteered,_ you _won't—)_

It's for _family._

It's ironic _,_ perhaps, that her District partner's done it for his family, but his family isn't _dead._ His family isn't buried six-feet-under the ground; his family's _grieving,_ but his family's _alive._ Mattie's dead and that's all she'll be—her parents are _shells_ of themselves, manufactured in coldness, _prove yourself to us, redeem our name,_ and…

Her entire mission in the Games is for Mattie—that's all Dior Marini _is_. A vessel for revenge; a vessel for justice; a vessel for… for her _sister,_ for _retribution,_ for Mattie's _life,_ to show that her sacrifice wasn't in _vain._ She's the older sister, she's supposed to _avenge_ her, because she isn't supposed to be the cowardly one, she isn't supposed to hide, she isn't supposed to back down, she isn't supposed to let Mattie Marini stroll her way to her death with a grin, _Dior, don't worry, I'll volunteer, you can stay here, don't worry I'm gonna survive for you, I'm gonna_ _ **live**_ _for you, I'm gonna come back home okay, you don't need to worry about anything anymore…_

Something chokes her throat. Something she can't feel _._

(Because Dior Marini needs to be in control; she needs to be _authoritative,_ she needs to be _strong._ She can't let anyone be swallowed by the tempo of the Games; _she_ has to be the one in control. She has to be in _control_ of her thoughts. Because if she lets herself think, if she lets herself think about Mattie, about anything more than _revenge_ or _living_ and _fighting,_ if she lets herself dwell on what had happened two years ago, if she lets herself _think,_ then she'll think about the day Mattie rose to the podium, the day she raised a hand and...)

(She'll think about the smile on her lips; of _hope,_ of _desire,_ of _innocence;_ the world her oyster, the world _anointed_ hers. And Dior'll be watching her Games, breath held, heart tight, _wishing_ for the best… but there had always been some feeling _else_ that'd sunk into the depths of her stomach.)

(... and then she'll think about Kiernan Alcraiz, and how she'd felt the same feeling wrench her stomach when she'd seen him volunteer, turning in feelings else; resentment, _madness,_ stewing in… removed pity. Dior hadn't let herself dwell on it— _how could she, she_ _ **couldn't,**_ _why would she…_ and she'd _scorned him,_ she'd _spurned him,_ she'd _said_ so many things—but for what cause?)

… because Alcraiz and Mattie were both children that volunteered _._ And perhaps one was _too-aware_ and the other _too-impressionable;_ but the result was the _same,_ wasn't it?

Because hadn't she always known that Mattie Marini never had a chance at the Games?

Dior laughs. But it is a sob stuck in her throat, and as quick as it comes as quickly it is gone.

No. Mattie Marini died with _purpose._ Mattie Marini died for a _reason._ Mattie Marini didn't just _die_ because she was weak, incompetent, unable—no, she _didn't,_ and she'll show _them,_ she'll show the _Eights,_ she'll _show them all…_

… where are the Eights?

Dior stops trudging. It is earth that resides beneath her feet, of course—the residue of an earthquake, the current still present, and Dior Marini _thinks._ Despite all of Eight girl's skill (that _8_ in private sessions, at least), despite all her anti-Capitol _rhetoric_ and her _spite_ that could ignite a wildfire… despite how well she could've _survived_ in the forests, despite how _competent_ she is, despite how many _supplies_ she'd stolen from the Cornucopia, despite how well she'd _rationed_ …

…. she needed to _eat,_ didn't she?

It hits her then.

She knows exactly where Eight girl is. She knows where she and her _District partner_ are. She'd spent so long tromping the entirety of the Arena for them—it didn't occur to her where she _didn't_ look.

Dior lifts her eyes up into the marigold-tinged skies, flowing with the taste of earth upon the air, and turns her sights back towards the Cornucopia.

(Nothing matters now. It doesn't _matter_ that she's injured, that she's exhausted, that she has a dozen litters of cuts on her skin from a boy that tried to kill her and the earthquake that tried to subsume her. It doesn't matter that she's barely breathing, that she's _haggard,_ that she's so _tired,_ that she just wants _rest._ It doesn't matter that she hasn't slept for two days; it doesn't matter that she's been restless, that she's done nothing but _move_ throughout the entirety that she'd been _here._ )

All that matters is that she gets them.

She needs to avenge Mattie.

She always needs to avenge Mattie.

(What more is there, to Dior Marini, if not for her sister? What more is to her, than revenge?)

_(What more is her, really, than a shell - to imbue the cadaver of her sister with purpose, because, then… what else would she be?)_

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

He sits next to a stalagmite and stares at the Three pair beside him.

(They'd let him in, after a small exchange. He didn't say much - not really. But they presumed he was a part of the rebellion, and he was too anxious - and polite - to correct them.)

And so he sits, gazing at the duo. Daniel and Ryleigh's been engaged in their own… things, since he came in. Daniel's engaged in a… device. Something _technological,_ because whirrs and beeps echo across the cavern. Something he somehow managed to find.

And Ryleigh's engaged in the art of intimidation. Rhodos hadn't thought that he would've been engaged in a staredown with a fourteen-year-old attempting to look scary in the Games… but reality defies expectations. Occasionally, she passes a few gazes at his spear, which he'd settled loosely by the cave wall next to him: as non-threatening as it could be.

But above all, _anxiety_ permeates the room. Rhodos is tense. Because he's somewhere that he _shouldn't be,_ he's here because of the _earthquake,_ he doesn't even know what's _happening._ He doesn't know where he _is,_ where _Althea_ is (and _worry_ gnaws at his heart, because… because even though her _cannon_ didn't go off, even though he didn't _see_ her face at night… she could still be _injured,_ still be _dying.._.)

Ryleigh clears her throat. And Rhodos's jarred out of his reverie, as the Three girl says, an octave too-loud: "You're not actually a part of the Vultures, are you?"

Rhodos swallows. _Panic_ envelops his body, and he's too rigid to speak. Daniel's soft tapping stops. Ryleigh's stare, despite her age, is vehemently powerful.

"I'm not," he admits. "Not at all. Not really. But…" and he closes his _eyes_ , forces the words _out_. "... I'm willing to learn."

A few excruciating moments pass the room. He's barely able to take a breath… till the tapping starts again.

Humour strikes up in Daniel's voice, as he continues on with the device. "A recruit. As good as we can get."

Rhodos attempts a weak smile. "A Career recruit," he says, tries to affirm, but it doesn't sit well with him - not his _unease,_ not his beating _heart._ Despite how far his flattery may take him - it's uncomfortable, so alien in his mouth.

So instead, he changes the topic. Rhodos gestures towards the… devices which Daniel's using.

"How did you get… _that?_ "

Daniel shrugs. "Cornucopia," he says, blunt, fast, despite Ryleigh's exasperated stare.

"C'mon, Dan! You're just gonna tell him _everything?_ "

Endearment and exasperation flick over Daniel's expression. He turns to Ryleigh. "C'mon, Ry. Once the jig's up, the jig's up. We're going to be rescued anyway. There's no use pretending. And not pretending's more of a courtesy than anything… he wants to learn, after all."

Ryleigh huffs. "Still."

Rhodos feels distinctly like he's third-wheeling. He coughs, and Daniel's eyes flick up to him. "So… what's this about?"

"Communication," Daniel says, without missing a beat, despite Ryleigh's continuous huffs. "It's for… our people to contact _us._ And before you ask where we got them—"

Rhodos clamps his mouth shut.

"—we got em from the Cornucopia because… well… they'd _ensured_ that it was put there for us."

 _The Cornucopia._ And Rhodos thinks back to the _tributes_ there, all too _confident,_ poised to _run…_

_That's why everyone ran._

And then - the _implications_ hit Rhodos immediately. To put _resources_ which the rebels needed in the Games had meant that they had _friends_ in high places. Not just _high places_ —but someone in the _Gamemakers'_ circle themselves.

_Just… how many rebels were in the Gamemaker team?_

Something like the ghost of a smile illuminates Daniel's lips. "Yeah. A few are… with us."

"How long has it been?"

Ryleigh pouts. "C'mon, Dan. Are you _really_ gonna spill the beans on absolutely _everything?_ "

Daniel looks at Ryleigh with amusement. "Do you wanna give Rhodos the history brief?"

Immediately, Ryleigh's expression _transforms._ Something like a sparkle lights up her irises, as she coughs and clears her throat just at the word _history_. But then, uncertainty plagues her eyes once she takes him in once more.

Rhodos raises his hand, lets a slight smile rest on his lips. "I don't bite. Promise."

Uncertainty's subsumed in _desire,_ and Rhodos can practically _see_ the moment when the Three girl's love of history overtakes her hesitation. She giggles, despite herself, and shoves the back of her palm to her teeth to stifle it. "Okay. Fine."

Ryleigh's eyes meet his, and her eyes shift into a sort of sincerity which hasn't really been _there_ on the half-hostile, half-reluctant kid's features before. "Are you ready?"

"... as ready as I can be."

Ryleigh lets out a _long_ breath and squeezes her eyes shut. "Okay. So… it started in the _very_ beginning. Like. Not the 55th Games beginning. But the _very_ beginning. You know District 13, right? Bombed and everything and all. But not. Not actually. They just kinda went into hiding. And they're _preparing_ to rise up against the Capitol and everything. To stop their tyranny, to make a new Panem, and _liberate_ us from the Games. And to do that… they need _us._ We're the heroes!" she says, grins, pumps her fist, as Daniel rolls his eyes. "And we're here to _help_ them save us, and then we're gonna overthrow Panem, and then everyone'll be happy again!"

Rhodos stares.

"I… wow."

Ryleigh nods eagerly. She opens her mouth to speak, and Rhodos braces himself for another verbal barrage—

"Sorry," Daniel interrupts. "She gets excited about this stuff. But… yeah. Basically what Ry said. We're here… well, we were _installed_ in here. Inside agents. Operatives. To study the Arena. To relay information back at them. So… they can know how to bring it _down_."

_Bring it down._

He barely believes he hears it.

"So this..." he says, and falters. "So... this is more than a suicide mission."

(He thinks about Nine girl. Nine girl and her split-open skin. Of blood, pouring down by the mouth opened in her neck, upon her body. And then he thinks of the blood's echo, at the final two, of the Games before.)

Daniel's lips quirk. "That may have been Madison Saros's. And Brynn Sanchez's. But no. Suicide isn't our mission. I'm gonna live. And so's Ry... even if she's annoying."

"Hey!"

Despite himself, Rhodos feels something quirk by the corner of his lips. But _dread_ seeps underneath him. Because they're speaking so _freely_ , like there aren't monitors or eyes-all-over _everywhere_ staring. Because they're acting like the Capitol isn't _there_. Because they're still in the _Games._

Daniel seems to have read his mind because he shakes his head.

"You don't need to worry, Rhodos," he says. "This place's about as foolproof as we get. It's on a feedback loop, and what the Capitol'll be getting is static."

 _Static. Feedback loop._ And Rhodos _stares,_ gobsmacked, eyes wide. _How was this even… possible?_ But another question, more _pertinent_ , prods at him—

"But… what are _you_ two doing here? You said you were… installed in, right? But don't you have people in the Gamemakers' team?" Disbelief inches down his heart. "I—I almost _killed_ you guys. Aren't you afraid of the Careers? What—what are you..."

"That's classified information!"

Daniel rolls his eyes. He nudges Ryleigh slightly. "Beats me," he exhales to Rhodos. "They don't really tell us anything. But I can tell you my job - I'm here to transmit data of the force-field to them. We're in the _caves_ 'cause that's the closest thing to the fields… without getting too _openly_ up-close and personal."

Rhodos works his jaw. "And you need the force-field… because?"

Daniel's grin widens. "I wasn't kidding when we said that we're taking down the Arena."

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

They sit around the… place.

(There is something peculiar about the place, Hera knows. It's a place where the earthquakes won't reach. And she knows that, and so does Kiernan, because that's why they're turning back, why they're staying here. She also knows that there is something more to the place than that. She's not too sure if she wants to know.)

Hera makes the fire. Kiernan just watches, weary. Typically, _fire_ is always a bad idea in the Games: but there isn't a sound except for the soft chirps of crickets that surround them. There are no tributes near, except for the District 2 pair here.

The Games are... exhausting. There is nothing more than Hera wants than to _not_ be here. And she's here for a reason _(to make glory, to make a life for herself, to show the world her perfect victory)..._

(Those reasons don't matter to her anymore. They're not _her—_ she's denounced them all. All she _has_ here, really, is an empty place. She's to be an empty corpse, a cadaver of the Arena. Her vial of morphling clinks in her pocket, and a voice nags in the back of her head. _You're dead anyway. What was it that Thyia said to you before you volunteered for the Games? Just get fuckin' high, Hera, one last time. If you die, better go delirious, better go euphoric, better go_ _ **happy**_ _..._ )

And her fingers are twitching, and she wants to tear off the cap, she wants to down the entire thing, and then she'll exhale in bliss. And then she'll exhale in bliss and there'll be a grin on her face and _oh_ wouldn't Hera Dalenka be so _damn_ happy? She'll collapse atop of the Arena meadows and she'll let a woozy grin meander over her face and she'll let the ground crack underneath her and she'll be oblivion in _bliss._

But…

Kiernan Alcraiz is here.

He's here, and he's staring at her, and she finds herself feeling oddly guilty _._

She moves her hand away from the vial. She moves her hand away from the vial and something possesses her, maybe, because her hand moves onto Kiernan's shoulder.

He flinches at her touch. And at first, she thinks he's gonna scoff, recoil, let the barbs spike out of him like a snarling hedgehog, a _warning_ , but what exits his lips is different from what she expects.

"... please don't."

"I'm sorry," she says and lets her hand fall back to her lap. "Are you okay?"

"Why does _everyone_ want me to say it so _badly?_ " Kiernan lets out a breath, and a type of humour coaxes out of his throat.

It's quiet, the next few moments. She looks at Kiernan, at his twitching fingers and his glimmering eyes and his taut mouth, and she waits until he is ready.

"No. No, I'm _not_ okay," he says, and it's sardonic _,_ so _excessive,_ so raw and aching and in pain. "First I need to volunteer _,_ cause the Capitol'll murder me an' Mom if I don't anyway. Then I get into the Games, and they don't even have the fucking _decency_ to kill me on the first day," and it's so sarcastic, it's seeping into his voice, seeping _everywhere_ there, and his eyes aren't even on hers, it's scouring around her, looking for _cameras,_ she realises.

"And the _earth_ eats me, but it can't even finish the job, and out of all places the Gamemakers decide to spit me out _here._ And you look—" he catches himself.

When Kiernan speaks again, a halting chuckle lets out of his mouth. "... you're like her."

And Hera might've been nothing but drug-addled for the past few months, but it doesn't take much to know what he's referring to.

"I'm sorry," she says, quietly, because what _else_ can she say, really? And Kiernan laughs, and it's harsh, but it's also softer, too.

"... no," he says, and his throat's clearer, this time, less sick with bile and pain. "... don't. It's—Maeve's my problem. I'll deal with her," and he swallows again, "eventually."

What Hera sees is this. A kid, not even thirteen yet, struggling with his sister's death. Tossed into the Arena, a plaything of the Gamemakers, here to show a _message_ to the rest of the world. Of what happens if you rebel. Barely _coping,_ barely _surviving,_ and…

Hera does what she couldn't, on the train. She speaks.

"You don't have to do it alone."

Kiernan doesn't speak. But she's sure there's a sob that lets itself out in the back of his throat. Stifled, and quiet, but… present.

They sit by the crackle of the fire. Hera does not speak.

(There is no _purpose_ for her, here, at the Games. Not anymore. But she looks at Kiernan Alcraiz, and she sees something that she can change. One of the many repairs she can make. For the boy, a child _,_ really, that's not even a teen. For the _person_ that she can help.)

Perhaps.

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

Althea Ivory treks through the wrecked Arena, and she doesn't have a _clue_ what to do.

Of course: everything had _happened,_ as normal. Anthem had blared; faces were projected. Aside from the earthquake, everything was normal.

The problem was… her plans were thrown out of the window. She'd wanted to stick with the pack, and obviously that option had gone nuclear after Dior. All Althea's now is she's _seething_ and she's _mad_ and she's so done with the _Games_ and the _Capitol_ and her _District_ for all their eyes that've tried to beat her down, to _judge_ her, to tell her that she _wasn't enough._

… which is _fine,_ yes, but it doesn't translate well in terms of winning the Games. And above all, Althea _needs_ to win the Games. She can denounce their judgement and she can denounce their words, but Kani Fairchild is still waiting for her at home, and she can't just say _fuck all_ and damn the world itself. She has to play by the rules. And for that, she needs to make a plan.

Althea isn't too sure where, exactly, she is, in the Games. All of the golden forests look the same to her, especially with how they all blur together: and now, streaked by an earthquake, it's so much autumnal-red which flows through the place.

But most of all, she does want to find Rhodos. She was glad when his face wasn't projected up on the skies. Because that at least meant that he was _okay._ And yet… she still can't keep her heart from worrying about what might've happened with him. Just because his face isn't in the sky _now_ doesn't mean that he won't be in the _next_. They don't show how much a person is injured.

(Really, she shouldn't care _that_ much about her District partner. But… Althea Ivory lets herself.)

… she shouldn't care, though, especially now that they're in the final ten. Chrys Gerhart is dead. All she has left is the Eights. That's all but taken care of by Dior Marini. Then it's the Threes, and then, the remaining Careers, and then it's…

Endgame. Huh.

The crown is near.

There aren't really too many competitors left. It's just Dior Marini, if she's being truthful. And Dior would not be well off. There's no chance in the _world_ that Dior wouldn't be hunting Eight girl down now especially with the dissolution of the pack. And Eight girl can put up one hell of a fight, especially with her training score of _8,_ not to mention her District partner which she's surefire on defending _._ So even if Dior Marini survives murdering her obsession, she won't be in any good shape.

Kiernan Alcraiz is a… straightforward one. Hera… she shouldn't be any more difficult.

(Althea forces the queasiness threatening to surface _down._ )

And Rhodos…

… Althea doesn't really want to think about Rhodos McNamara in the finale.

(But it's all _necessary._ That's what she _has_ to do, if she wants to make it _back,_ back to Kani. And hell, she might've said _fuck you_ to the Capitol, but that doesn't _change_ that she's still bound to their game. For now. And she can simmer and fester all she wants, but she has to… _finish this._ The best she can hope is for something _else_ to take out the rest of the tributes, and then… and then she'll be left standing, the Victor of it all, as the world erupts into cheers for she's _proven herself,_ as she scorns the world for making her _think_ that she had to in the first place.)

The Games. _Everything_ is for the Games. So Althea Ivory gazes ahead, into the autumnal dusk, thinks about strategy. And so, perhaps, that is why it does not register at first, when the quiver of earth shakes her feet.

Fucking _hell._


	24. The Ruler and The Insurgent - Interlude.

**Head Gamemaker Elkavich. Gamemakers' Headquarters.**

Her headquarters are in a frenzy, and that is the last _place_ she wishes to be.

(It is _unsightly._ All of it is unsightly: she can barely dare to look at the madness that makes the stage before her. A hundred head-throbbing cries; the freakish shoves of bodies; the pitter-patter of mad feet like there was a terrorist desecrated _here._ )

Even that would not truly be a lie.

 _Control. Breathe. Control._ It is a mantra she repeats to herself, yet it is not useful. For no matter how much she tries to _restrain_ herself, to _moderate_ herself, to be _temperate…_

… that does not change the reality that she beholds.

The _reality_ is not a reality that can be. She cannot have wanton _earthquakes_ in her Arena. She cannot have obstreperous signals interfering with her Games. Hell, she cannot have _this -_ this mad gallimaufry that is her headquarters now.

(And _Snow_ 's breath glides across, already so cold on her skin, a hint of a smile meandering upon his lips. "Elkavich," he would purr, the creep of his saline breath pressing against her neck, "what have I told you?")

Elkavich can be penitent _,_ she can be impuissant _,_ she can be circumlocutory till he believes her to be the salt of the earth itself: but what does not change is that there is rebellion. In itself an executable offence.

She cannot bestride him.

Not in a world so razed by rebellion.

(Why did she choose to rise _now,_ at this time? Of course, Snow enticed her with all she could have: all that she can wrangle into her hands: glorious and gluttonous wealth, the cheers and cries of the Capitol. Of course, she was entranced, but not for his reasons: she could _make_ something of herself, she could drag herself from the bitter dredges of dirt and rise above like Gaia, the mother of the world. Elkavich could cock her head at the empire that she _created,_ and she would be _recognised,_ she would be _seen,_ not slandered. She would watch the world _itself_ beg her at its knees.)

… none of that now.

(No. What she _is_ is this: a little girl, trying to play at Gamemaker, dissatisfied with the title of _escort_ and who wanted bigger, wanted _better._ What she is, is this: a scapegoat. _Two months, you'll succeed,_ they said, and that filled her with so much _confidence,_ oh, she _would._ Of course she couldn't: who in the world had heard of a Games created so _quickly,_ grown from the ashes of little girls lining up to off themselves?)

(They'll bring her in. Elkavich stands on the glass cliffs that Guthrie had made of her; Elkavich stands on the ruins that Snow had thrown her to remake. Elkavich _stands,_ and her legs shake, and they pay her no heed: no, their eyes are turned below, to the shrieks of ravenous vultures she can't control, to the shadows of her tombstone.)

They'll blame her. _Oh, Elkavich,_ and Snow's smirk would be cloaked by disapproval in his face, _I had hoped that you would conjure an Arena of your desires. But it is so clear that you would prefer to… reuse. A shame, really: was the last Games not a symbol of rebellion? Was it truly creative to reforge the prior Games? Rebellion_ _ **festers**_ _in that heartland. Did you think that you could redeem Guthrie's Games? I thought that you would make something_ _ **yours,**_ _for once._

Yours. The word is viscid tar in her mouth.

( _Nothing_ can be _yours_. Did you expect anything to be yours? The Capitol's tasselled you up with their gems and you made her their escort. They've made you reel kids in for their voyeuristic slaughter, and you are but a sidepiece of jewellery for their voracious eyes. Oh, you could _claim_ that you're here of your own _strength,_ of your own _prowess,_ but admit it, Elkavich: you wouldn't be here if not for _Snow._ You would not be here had you not been one of Guthrie's loyal escorts. You would not be here if not for Guthrie's dualistic Arena. You would not be _anywhere._ )

Elkavich doesn't realise she's clenching her fists till she feels the consistency of blood amid her palms. Her razor-tipped fingernails slice a ruby tear in her skin.

"This is _my_ Games," she exhales, closes her eyes, _say it again, sayitsayit I dare you, make it sound like it's true, make it sound like it_ means _something, sayitsayitsayit—_

"Do you understand?" She opens her eyes and the words ricochet across the headquarters. And she finds her team's eyes on her, finds their stares and their silence, as they watch her upon her elevated balcony. No more is chaos; no more is their frenzy.

It is just her left.

And her words are stoic, cool-stoic-cool, and that is what she sees reflected in the rest of the team's eyes: their _fear,_ their _awe,_ their _obedience._

Their obedience.

She levels her gaze at them all. _No,_ this team is _hers._ They obey her; they revere her; they _watch_ her. _No,_ this headquarters is _hers._ She's earned it through her verve and her strength and her largesse. No: this Arena is _hers._ She's _taken_ what Guthrie's made, and she improved upon it; she made it her contrivance, her chef-d'oeuvre, her _creation_.

And send sieges of rebellion against her stature and send parades of dead children on the streets and hell, and send Snow in to slice her neck, but nothing will change the fact: the _Games_ are hers.

Elkavich is not yet moribund.

Not to the mistakes of others.

Not for a Games that was not good enough.

She turns to her controls. There's barely a dozen: _simplistic,_ her Games had stayed. But there is one lever that had solely belonged to her. And only to her. Only _she,_ the Head Gamemaker, could choose to release her creations.

(It had taken _time,_ piecing them together. Yet not as much time as they would before: there were no parades of corpses two months ago, no return of bodies to their homes and their morgues two months prior. These mutts were… easy.)

And the red lights that dot her control panel flash green, and a dozen whirrs and creaks give way under her. A dozen flurries of noises-set-free; a dozen screeches; a dozen clatter of hooves. A dozen stream out of cracks that the earthquakes had created; a dozen more break free from earth and rise above dirt.

Something lets up the corner of her lips.

That is why she barely hears the steps approach; that is why she barely hears the clatter of heels. That is why she does not look when she hears somebody speak.

"M-miss Elkavich," a Gamemaker says, and the stutter betrays just who it is. "Snow s-seeks you."

Her scoff belies her fears. She does not turn to look at Kathvarine.

"Tell him he can have ten minutes. His duties I can care less for. I have my Games to attend to."

* * *

**Jordyn Moriau. ?**

There's something unreal, perhaps, about being on a hovercraft.

Not just because of the fact: Jordyn Moriau has never been on a hovercraft, and the only hovercraft she'd expected to _be_ upon was the one carrying her corpse back home, to be buried under a name that wasn't hers.

Yet she is here.

No just that. What is unreal is the fact that she is _here,_ and alive, and breathing, and with District Thirteen. What is unreal is the radio signals jettisoned across stations, unknown to the Capitol and to Peacekeepers. What is unreal is the fact that they have organised rebellion at their behest, that they have people on the streets stirring _justice,_ stirring _revenge,_ that they have devices and bombs and siren-calls and technology and _weaponry._

"We're on course to the Arena. Are we ready for extraction?"

Her eyes jerk up at the voice through her comms. Anxiety bubbles underneath her skin. Listening to their reports, now _,_ still, is uncomfortable. Jordyn isn't sure if there's a day she'll ever be comfortable: the _rebellion_ is like the hovercraft she stands upon. Unsteady… uncertain… so prone to _falling,_ if one strike gets, snug enough to dismantle their craft itself…

Another voice fizzes through.

"Yes. The Technologists have confirmed their location. The Mole has her finger on the trigger. We are prepared for entrance."

Jordyn lets out a quiet, not-quite, breath. _The Technologists,_ she thinks, rueful. _What a way to name the Threes._ And her mind drifts once, and away: _The Mole. How… nice, to have someone high up in your ranks… working for your cause._

(She knows that there is history. This is not the first time that District Thirteen had attempted to interfere. That was something that Cynane had mentioned, upon their debriefing, after Jordyn arrived. Their first attempt to disrupt the Games, the _53rd,_ had foiled; but that is no matter. They have _connections,_ now, they have _people,_ they have _operations_ set across all of the Districts.)

Their rebellion is warranted. Their rebellion is _important._ Their rebellion is _necessary:_ as necessary as air is necessary, and there, that is why she is here _._

… but anxiety still gnaws at her skin, and it doesn't really make her feel any better.

What is also unreal is the way her face makes the screens. She is now the poster child of rebellion. And it's _uncomfortable,_ if she's being honest because the _Jordyn Moriau_ holstered to the world is not quite herself. That is a figurehead; that is a caricature; that is an act. And sure, she had excelled in all sixteen years of acting. But that makes her only more uneasy upon the screens.

(There is something else, that she would not touch, not yet: for she needs to suppress a wince when they call her name, needs to stuff down a chaotic medley of feelings _unease unease wrong wrong so putrid in her mouth wrong so wrong_ whenever they speak. But that is something she would not touch: not yet.)

Her comms fizz; the noises rebound, across and over the small hovercraft. Every little more sound spikes her nerves. Yet it is better, to focus her mind on, better, to focus on how it is all too unreal.

What would be the most unreal would probably be the girl sitting next to her. Who she thought was _dead._ Who she thought she would see again. Who would've ever thought that she'd be seeing M—

"... Jordyn."

She jumps. Her eyes dart up to Cynane's, from across the hovercraft, standing at the commands. Discomfort sinks into her skin, but that moment does not last for long. Cynane would see how she feels, and she can't be caught up in her _feelings._ There are more important things to attend to.

"Is there anything I can do?" she says, despite herself. She straightens her back: she tries to seem more _presentable,_ less _tired_ than she already is.

She had made a broadcast… just yesterday. It was for the Sixes. For Herman and Fascia… the fallen.

" _Stand strong. We'll avenge the deaths of your children. Their sacrifices are not made in vain."_

… she had not even _known_ that they were part of the rebellion until their faces had marred the dusk-dark skies of the Games, and Cynane had sighed, let out a scoff from her lips, _another two of our operatives down._

Cynane stares at her. She swallows and meets Cynane's gaze.

"What is it? Do we have more operatives," and the word itself is uncomfortable on her lips, too _clunky,_ too _cold,_ too _clinical,_ "... down?"

Something pulls by the side of Cynane's lips. It would have been a smile if it was not so… raptorial. But it is only for a moment: and then it is gone again.

"No, not yet. What I want you to do is to tell the world," Cynane says, and the thin smile that meets her lips is almost eerie. "The rebellion is underway."

"How?" she says, and the words are nearly breathless from her lips.

Cynane only cocks her head.

"That's easy. It's extraction time. Are you ready?"

_Extraction._

"Where is that?"

Something presses by Cynane's lips. "You'll know the destination." And Cynane turns her head back towards the front of the hovercraft. And if she looks, she can make out the shimmer of the _Arena,_ that shimmer she'd taken _down._ Again-once-again.

Cynane does not even flinch when she says the next words.

"Her grave."

* * *

**Gamemaker Kathvarine Guthrie. Gamemakers' Headquarters.**

She watches Elkavich leave, and there is something pretty that quirks her lips as she goes.

It is so easy that she ascends up the platform which Elkavich had sat upon. The _Head Gamemaker,_ who needed somewhere special to keep her screens, her _systems_ , her controls: wasn't she just so much better than them all?

(That place her _father_ sat upon. That place that was supposed to be Guthrie's, till he was seized away by _Snow,_ till he was executed in some red room else place. And seeing Elkavich in where her _father_ was supposed to be churns her gut with… something.)

(Not that she loved her father. But… still.)

They've been at their technological siege. The rebels from Thirteen were; those from within the Games were. The force-field hadn't been altered, much, but Kathvarine knows that there had been more _changes,_ more _precautions_ and _measures_ to ensure its security.

Kathvarine knows where the extraction point is. She knows the control of the earthquakes; there is a circle, a _safe place,_ where the quakes dare not disrupt. She knows the rebellion; she knows the hovercraft that whirrs in wait; she knows that change hinges on _her_.

And all she needs to do now is to demolish the force-field.

There is no easy _way_ she can do that. But with the help from the Threes, and then the rebellion themselves…

It is so easy.

(It is so easy the force-field _shudders upon_ the screens. It is so easy that it _shutters,_ that it _suspends,_ that it _stops._ And then there are _shakes,_ and then there are _explosions,_ and amid all of the chaos that erupts through the earth is a calamity above the world.)

Kathvarine watches the entrance of the hovercraft into the Games with an unbidden smile.

The rebellion has begun.


	25. The Slaughtered and The Genesis - Night 4.

Night 4: The Slaughtered and The Genesis.

**Dior Marini. District 1.**

She finds Eight girl and her District partner sifting through their Cornucopia supplies.

Dior doesn't care to conceal her footsteps. The Arena had been too far too loud, anyway. The Games had been engulfed in an earthquake _,_ and shook the horizons with all the sound it needed to. So what if her legs had made a _rustle,_ so what if her footsteps were just a little _loud, so what_ if she favoured her left side 'cause she's still bleeding from Gerhart's-made wounds, so _what_ if she was not a _wolf,_ a slinking beast to devour its prey?

It's nearly the end _._ What more does she need to care about?

(No, what's more is that she's near _absolution._ Ahead of her are the _Eights:_ and if she closes her eyes and grits her teeth and if she forces the shrieks of the forests back in her head, she'd be in the 53rd Games _,_ she'll be raising her chin and fixing her eyes upon the two children that thought they'd be able to take on a _Career,_ she'd cock her head half-way and she'd sneer _, oh,_ _ **children,**_ _who do you think you are?_ And she'd _laugh,_ she'd laugh too hard as she sends steel plummeting in both their chests, and then they'll both be _skin_ and bags of flesh, and Dior'll wreathe the Victor's crown, oh so _heavy_ on her head around, and she'll return _home_ and she'll be greeted by her sister, too ecstatic, and her family, too proud, and they'll be _alive,_ Mattie will be _alive,_ and no one would've _died,_ nobody, _nobody…)_

The Cornucopia had long been disrupted by the earthquake. And _disrupted_ it is, still, for there are infiltrators present.

Spilling out of her lips, unbidden, is a scoff.

And Eight girl's eyes meet hers.

Her lips quirk by the edges. Dior watches Eight girl at the mouth of the Cornucopia, glinting in a shaft of moonlight. And her heart is like the deep-sea depths for she _knows_.

This is how everything will end.

"Hello," Eight girl says amicably, but sardonicism twists inside her vocal chords, searches for _escape_. Two long knives sway on Eight's hands. "You've been looking for _me_?"

"How nice of you to realise."

Eight girl grins, and her teeth glints in the light; and it is so _animalistic,_ it is so _fervorous,_ and _memories_ break out from their fetters in her brain - _animals dancing through the forests dancing with laughter dancing_ _a death dance —_

"Yeah, yeah, couldn't have _not._ So fucking obsessed with me," Sadie says, laughs; _caustic, too caustic_. "You gay or something?"

"Don't _try_ this with me." Dior snarls.

"Try what? Try what you've tried with _me_ all-Games-long? _Trying,_ " and Sadie grinds the _t_ on her lips, "to hunt me down." Her teeth gleams with a grin. "Trying to get me 'cause I'm a bitch and a half and you wanna be the reigning queen bitch here, 'cause I'm too rebellious for your tastes, 'cause I remind you of somebody, hell, all of the above?"

Dior can't stop the ripple of rage that streaks across her face. Then she already knows she's made a _mistake,_ because Sadie's eyes raise slightly at her reaction, and then she reverts back to amusement again.

"Oh," she says, cocks her head, half a something fluttering across her lips. "Didn't think I'd get that one right."

Dior grips her blade tighter. "Fuck you," she grits, and Sadie's eyes light up at the words, yet within her eyes rests a _blaze_ , seething, scathing, vitriolic _._

"Fuck _you,_ really?" she says. "Cause I'm _scum,_ cause I'm _fuckin' evil,_ but when you're killin' kids like it's sport, oh, let's see, who's the real shit of the earth here?"

Dangerous _visions_ flash in her head— _dangerous_ for the illegal feelings it shrills in her veins. _Fuck you,_ she wants to spit, _shut up, fucking shut_ _ **up**_ _, you're an_ _ **animal**_ _, I didn't ask you to speak, fuck youfuckyoufuckyou, just let me_ _ **kill**_ _you—_

She strikes first. She knows it will not _kill_ , oh, no, Dior does not want a _clean_ kill, she wants a _fight,_ wants Eight with a crisscrossed chest carved out with an _x_ , wants her down, _dead,_ down—

A slice down Eight girl's chest. _Not enough,_ and she feels a yell on her lips, for it was just a graze, and then she parries back with her blade, one of the many they've left in the Cornucopia _(till their world erupted in earthquakes)—_

But Eight girl has two long knives, and it's _no_ easy fight, for they _parry_ and their blades meet _,_ and every one more she gets _red_ slick all over Eight girl. Cut after cut after cut; and it'll take a thousand ones, but it isn't _enough,_ isn't _enough_. Dior wanted a _fight,_ she wanted an _animal,_ she wanted the slash of claws and jaws and the shriek of wildness in her visage; she wanted the _ferality,_ wanted _justice,_ wanted _revenge,_ and this wasn't what she asked for; where was the _madness—_

(Couldn't they fucking _be_ just like the Eights of the 53rd Games? Couldn't they let her _imagine?_ )

But Eight girl isn't as _strong_ as what Dior thought she'd _be,_ and it's _pathetic,_ honestly, and she slams her foot against Eight's chest, and she jars to the ground, body and face up and arms supporting her body up underneath, and wholly at Dior's mercy—

And that's when Dior notices _him._

Eight boy. Hunched over, staggering away, _running_ from the Cornucopia. So _far,_ almost _too_ far away…

And Dior feels a snarl on her lips. It _hits_ her then, suddenly, that's why Eight was barely attacking, she was _holding back,_ trying to _deviate,_ trying to _prevent,_ trying to _stop her from realising what was happening…_

Oh, no, _no._ Dior _won't._

Eight boy may try to shy away, but he is so _pathetic,_ he is so _unprotected;_ he is, oh-so-dead…

She reaches to her side and she flings her dagger at him, a trick which she'd been taught, none too long ago. And then red _crowns_ the back of District Eight male's throat, and he _gags,_ and then Dior watches as he splutters, as he _dies—_

_(—wearing a red-ruby necklace, recrudescent, glittering with stringed-pulsing rubies, so bright, that contrast of red against pale-porcelain, a boy's flesh, a girl's flesh, a_ _**child's** _ _flesh—)_

—and Dior's heart stops beating.

 _No._ No. _No._ A gulf of panic surges up her chest. _No_. _No, no, no—_ it's _not_ Mattie's death she gazes upon, _Dior, calm yourself,_ _ **control yourself,**_ _you're in the Games, don't_ _ **panic,**_ _the last thing you can do's fucking_ _ **panic,**_ _calm, calm, calm, breathe, don't fucking speak—_

She feels a _strike_ against her chest, and Dior thumps to the ground, and _fuck you_ Sadie's screaming, and dimly, Dior realises, nearly a laugh, oh, that must be why Sadie didn't _attack,_ not as hard as Dior _thought_ she would, cause she was trying to get Eight boy away, trying to _save_ him from her, but now—now no longer.

Metal knocks her head sideways, spit's forced out of her mouth. Her head _pounds_ and she turns to meet _Eight girl, Eight girl_ who's unleashing guttural rage from her throat, _glaring, screaming,_ slamming her blade down into her flesh, again and again and _again_ , and Dior wants to _laugh,_ she _does,_ really, but holy fuck—

Founts of _feelings (blood)_ bubble up from her chest, and she's between laughing and _screaming,_ she wants to rip Eight girl's skin down and she wants to render her _red,_ she wants her to _die (a ruby necklace round her throat)_ , no, _yes,_ no—

Dior feels the downwards force of the long knives before she sees it, and she twists her head aside from the blade. It thumps into the ground. Her own _instincts_ kick into motion, and she's grabbing the blade from her hands, blood foaming from her palms, and she tugs the blade out from under the ground, and Sadie falls _down_ with a thump to the ground, and Dior reaches her sword, _come on, comeoncomeoncomeON_ _decapitate that bitch take your revenge for her do it for her_ —

But Eight girl rolls away from the descent from her blade, and Eight girl hollers with pain and laughter, and it makes her _madder,_ so _much_ so much so _fucking madder—_

"I hate you," Dior spits, heaves her blade again, "I _hate_ you, I hate you, I hate you—"

"You hate _me?_ I despise _you_. You fucking _murderers_ —" and then she pauses, and then she laughs—

"And you have the audacity to _hate_ me? To _blame_ me for, what? Existing?" Another half-laugh rattles in Eight girl's throat, a wretched laugh, a ridiculous laugh, a laugh that should not be a laugh. "Don't _kid_. You wanted this. D'you think _I_ wanted this? You _kill_ them all, you _killed_ my District partner, I swear to the hells, I'm gonna _kill you,_ I've wanted this from the beginning _,_ fucking _hell—_ "

Eight girl's _underneath_ her, she's on the _ground,_ and she just has to reach out and _kill_ her, she _could,_ she _has_ to, it'll be so—it'll be so _easy,_ and all she needs to do is slice her sword over her throat, slice a red _red red fucking_ red line over—

A swipe under her legs and Dior thumps to the ground. She's on the _ground_ and Sadie _towers_ over her, sweat tangling her black hair and breathing so hard, blood tangling her face and breathing so hard, and something's lodged in Dior's heart, and she doesn't know if it's a laugh, but it's so _suffocating…_

(Is _Eight girl—_ no, no, is _Sadie Rendevez_ any different from her and Mattie, really? Dior volunteered for her sister. Chrys had volunteered for his family. All Rendevez's ever wanted to do was _protect_ her District partner. How did… how did she become the _villain_ of this narrative?)

She laughs. And they are laughs that ache against her lungs, laughs that scorch her throat, laughs that are scathing and sour and acrid and she's _breaking_ , piece-by-piece and shard-by-shard _,_ for Dior Marini is _dying..._

A jerk of metal across her neck.

Dior Marini wears a necklace.

(And as the cannon reverberates through the night, as Dior Marini fades away, _what_ is she other than her sister's wannabe _saviour_ , a girl that tried to make purpose out of what was purposeless, a leader who got too much in her head, a girl that went on her senseless revenge-quest, a girl still too cowardly to _confront_ her own feelings, a girl lying down dying, dying, _dead.._.)

Metal and flesh; nothing more and nothing less.

(A cadaver, like her sister: so absolutely purposeless.)

* * *

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

It's hard for him to wrap his head around all that's happened.

It's hard for him to imagine the extent of rebellion. That rebels had been _installed_ in the Games _,_ and if he goes off the symbols - _talons, a vulture's talon_ \- then…

Threes. Sixes. Nines. And the Eights, too, probably, given their rebellious history.

 _All_ of them, who'd essentially volunteered. Not in practice, but in spirit _._ All to help the rebels outside, all to help _District 13_ find a way in. _All of them…_ and his head's _spinning,_ he's _vertiginous_ , and that's discounting the _intrigue_ that must've gone behind the scenes. How many Capitolians… how many _Gamemakers…_

… how many _tributes?_

Rhodos watches as Daniel and Ryleigh pack up camp. It's near-surreal, the scene, for that was _evidence_ of rebellion itself, yet he still doesn't quite believe it. It's near transient before his eyes, and if he reaches out and touches either one of them, then he'll disrupt the mirage and he'll be left in the Arena, so _alone_ …

"We'll have to be ready," Daniel says, as he shoves his machinery in his backpack. "They're coming soon."

Yet it's _not._ Sense smacks back into him, despite how nonsensical the rebellion had nearly felt in the first place.

"What's coming?" Rhodos asks, not quite daring to let his thoughts out aloud.

Amusement resides by the corner of Daniel's lips. "Who else?"

Rhodos feels his heart tighten.

_The_ _**hovercraft** _ _. The rebels._

(They'd talked about it last night. They sat round a lamp, and Daniel was whispering tales of rebellion, as wispy as the bare glow, despite the _shushes_ which Ryleigh would direct his way. It's still incomprehensible to Rhodos. He's never really imagined that anything like this would happen. Half of him doesn't believe it; it's an _impossibility,_ it's just _not real._ But another part of him...)

"Where?"

"Collection site!" Ryleigh says. She's beaming with excitement, with more energy than Rhodos had seen from her from the past _day_ or so that he'd known her. Which was saying something, because Ryleigh has a boundless amount of it.

He mulls the words over in his mind. _Collection site._ And his eyebrow almost raises, because it almost _felt_ like Ryleigh had just voluntarily given up information. Yet she doesn't seem to notice.

"You know how long I've been waiting for?" she continues, excitedly on. "I've been waiting. A _hella_ long time for this."

Daniel rolls his eyes. "I know."

Rhodos looks between Ryleigh (who seems to have just figured out that she'd just freely given up information to the _'stranger-danger-Career'_ , as she'd called him in the beginning, though he'd like to think that she doesn't think of him like that anymore), and looks to Daniel.

"And where's… that?"

Daniel's lips tighten. "You'll know it when you see it. It's a familiar site."

At that, Ryleigh raises her eyebrows. "Really, Dan? Kinda unlike _you_ to be vague. Just saying!"

Daniel laughs, but then he locks eyes with Rhodos. "Well," he says, and his lips curl. "It's somewhere where the earthquakes don't dare disrupt. That's all I'll say for now."

Rhodos nods. He doesn't _understand,_ not at all, because that's still so vague, but he'll… trust them, for now.

( _Earthquakes_. It still unsettles him whenever he thinks about how the earthquakes are controlled by the rebels. Course, the Gamemakers would've killed _anyone_ anyways… but there's something about the fact that his fate's in some unknown _rebel's_ hands that _scares_ him.)

(Because… they could do absolutely _anything,_ and _everything._ At least there's method to the Capitol's madness… they need _viewers,_ need _entertainment._ But with the earthquakes in the rebel's hands… they can do _anything._ And to say he's worried would be saying the… least.)

Rhodos is undeniably afraid of what's to come. Even as he slings his bag over his shoulder and grabs his spear, even as he follows the Threes into the trek down the golden woods and the golden earth. Even as the world oozes yolk: tangy, _liquid,_ in the earth's disruption.

But anticipation ignites inside him too. He'd been so _fearful_ of rebellion, he'd so _dreaded_ it… because it challenged all the conventions there were. It was unorthodox, it was _unbelievable_ , it was _unreal._ It'd gone straight out of his _comfort zone_ and into the skies above _…_ it wasn't something that he'd ever indulge in. It wasn't something he'd ever _imagined_ that he'd even get close to.

But now…

… now he's _in_ rebellion. No matter if he likes it or not.

(And the truth is… he's not so adverse to the idea. Not anymore. He'd always had the image of a Victor in his head: himself, standing behind glass, staring at the _sea,_ his parents behind him, Mrs. Larimar _beside_ him; all the world's _pressure_ off his shoulders, his winnings satiating his parents' coffers, and he'll be able to turn to _music,_ to his _true passion,_ to do what he'd always wanted…)

But no matter how hard he _tried…_ the image had always remained a fantasy. Rhodos would've _liked_ to win the Games, but there wasn't really a world where he saw that _made true._ Truth to be told… he'd expected to _die_ in the Games.

But this isn't a normal Games. And Rhodos wants a different fate. Not of _death,_ but not of _victory,_ either.

Change is in the air.

For once, Rhodos steels himself. He raises his eyes ahead _._ Towards their destination.

(Towards a new beginning.)

He doesn't have to _submit_. Not… not anymore.

But suddenly, he feels a sensation under his feet. A _tremor_ rumbles the ground. Rhodos exchanges a look with Daniel and Ryleigh, and that's when he knows—it isn't just _him_ that feels it.

"Come on," Daniel says, and his voice is a touch too urgent. "We have to go."

Rhodos doesn't wait for him to say it again.

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

She runs.

There isn't much more she can do than to run: away from the ripples that stroke under her feet, away from the madness that's threatening to descend all around her. Of all that wants to envelop her, drown her, _crush_ her…

She runs. She _runs_ and she runs and she runs and Althea doesn't even know, doesn't even _care_ for where she's going, as she bites a snarl under her breath and keeps going. Give it up to the Gamemakers, oh so _wanting_ to fuck her over, raze, explode her apart…

And then she sees him.

Rhodos McNamara.

She almost _stops._ She blinks: to make sure she's seeing right, because it's almost too dark to tell, because it's like he's tagged with the _Threes._

And they're struggling up through the forests, they're moving, quick-speed, and for a moment, Althea weighs the spear in her hand. She can just _throw_ that, at the Threes, and then that'll be two more competitors down, and she'll be reunited with her District partner.

(But the stench of _death_ is still so putrid in her mind, and she's still so _unsettled_ from Eleven girl and Five boy's deaths. Sure, she said she'd raze _gore_ of the Arena, she'd do it for herself, but... Althea doesn't think that she can take any more, if she'd tried.)

So… she doesn't.

Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, forces the breath and the _stupid_ quirk struggling up by her mouth away. _I can't believe I'm doing this._

"Rhodos?"

Rhodos looks. And when he meets her eyes, _happiness_ lights up his eyes.

"Althea!"

He jogs towards her. The Threes look between each other, _wary_ , but Althea could care much less about them. She cocks her head towards Rhodos, and when he stops in front of her, she isn't so sure what to do.

"You're here," she says again, quietly. And Rhodos looks up at her, and a grin spreads over his lips. And she feels the barrage of arms and Althea stumbles back, slightly, but realises that it's _Rhodos,_ Rhodos that's enveloping her in a hug, and despite herself, she feels something lift her lips.

She feels her hands return the gesture. She hugs him back.

Suddenly, Rhodos immediately extricates himself.

"Oh gosh, Althea, I'm sorry, I got—excited," he says, sheepishly. "I thought you might've gotten really injured, or—or something!"

Despite herself, she feels something like a smile work its way on her lips.

"I'm fine," she says, and the words come out softer than she'd expected. "I'm glad you're fine, too."

Rhodos nods. "Yeah, I am. But most of that's thanks to Daniel and Ryleigh."

"Daniel and Ryleigh…?"

And then it hits her _. The Threes._

They're approaching her now. The girl—she assumes she's Ryleigh—looks at Althea with distrust in her eyes. The same's shared by the boy, but to a slightly lesser degree.

Doesn't change the fact that they're still looking at her like she'll pike them through with her spear any minute.

Althea doesn't trust them either. First of all: they're far too on edge, as if they'll bolt at any given moment. And second of all: she's too aware of the tattooon their forearms.

"This is Althea Ivory," Rhodos says, carefully, and she knows he's all too aware of the tension, for Rhodos speaks like he's treading on broken glass. He looks at her, and gestures to the Threes. "And that is Daniel and Ryleigh."

Awkwardness pervades between them. Despite the shakes of the ground underneath.

"So?" Althea says, and she doesn't even attempt to hide the terseness in her tone. "What's this about?"

"... it's a long story."

 _Story._ That's one way to put it.

So she raises an eyebrow. "Rebellion-related, am I correct?"

The Threes tense up. Rhodos looks between them. And Althea's stomach shrinks, because _yes,_ she's seen the tattoos, but she'd also _hoped_ that it wasn't _that._

"... yes, essentially," Rhodos says, and the awkwardness is so evident in his tone. "... it's a long story, but yes, it's… rebellion."

Rebellion. _Rebellion._ It's almost ridiculous, to hear those letters colour the autumnal air once more. Especially after it was what they were told to _curb,_ to destroy, to _defeat…_

… and now they're _here._

"You don't need to explain it to me," Althea says, and the words on her tongue almost _baffle_ her, as they choke her. "Look. I don't know what you're doing, and I don't _want_ to know. I'm already... saying more than I _should_. To _rebels,_ " and she looks at the Threes, and the concept's almost ludicrous, almost as ludicrous as her _District partner_ here…

She's pretty sure Ryleigh starts to glare at her. Even Daniel looks perturbed. And amid it all Althea can barely _think_ , because it's _rebellion,_ it's the rebellion she's seen at Four, on the streets, amid the chaos of the night and the choruses of the people. _Our children deserve better, they deserve to_ _ **live**_ _, to_ _ **survive**_ _,_ right before blood-splatter splays the alleys, and she'd shut the screen and turn to Kani, in the Victor's village, and Kani would smile sadly, _it isn't safe out there, rebellion doesn't go well with survival…_

"... it's not like what you think it is," Rhodos's saying, and she doesn't _understand,_ how could this not be what it is? The _Threes_ and _her District partner,_ Rhodos McNamara, getting together, for _what?_

"So _what_ is it?" Althea says, exasperation leaking from her voice. "Rhodos… look, I've grown closer to you than… than I'd like to admit. And I'll admit that I won't want to see you die. But you're going— going on a _suicide mission_. _Rebellion_ is suicide. What are you doing?"

For a moment, Rhodos almost seems helpless. All he can muster is a shake of his head.

"Althea, it's not like that. It goes—it goes _deeper_ than that. It's not... hopeless, like last time."

 _Last time._ Oh, what a _perfect_ reminder about how rebellion with Careers went.

"... it's different _._ I… I can't really explain it here, but Althea, please, trust me..."

_Trust me._

She does trust Rhodos McNamara. He's her _District partner:_ she knows him, and so does he know her. She knows him enough to know that he won't betray her, won't backstab her, won't be anything but loyal to her. But that does not change the fact that all in all, she's only known him truly for about a week. Does she trust the _Games_ with him; does she trust her _life_ back home with him, _Kani Fairchild_ with him, does she trust her _future_ with him, does she trust him— that much?

"Rhodos," she says, quietly. "I'm _not_ about to indulge in… whatever this is. I have _people_ back at home that I have to make back to."

"So do I," Rhodos counters, "I have people I want to make back to, too. Please, Althea…"

And she's staring _,_ and she doesn't know what to think _,_ because he still doesn't _understand_.

Althea wants to _win._ She's been driven on this path since the beginning. Victory's her desire; victory meant _life,_ victory meant _survival,_ victory meant _Kani,_ it meant…

It _means_ everything for her.

(Will she let rebellion… ruin that all?)

Althea shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I'm not about to—I _won't_ take this chance."

(Althea Ivory wants to _survive._ She wants _victory,_ for herself. She _desires_ it, needs it like life itself. She might not want to see the rest of the world die, but she is not about to let herself die, either, for a futile cause.)

"Please, please, Althea, wait—Althea, the _earthquakes!_ They aren't—"

Althea turns away. She heaves a breath, despite Rhodos's protests, and turns away.

She feels the rumble of the earth beneath her feet.

She turns and treks the other way.

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

The earth is alive.

Hera doesn't quite feel it, at first. But soon it vibrates against the soles of her feet. And she finds that she can't stop the words from flowing out from her lips.

"Is there another earthquake?"

Alarm flares in Kiernan's eyes. "Isn't this supposed to be the _safe zone_?" Kiernan says, and his voice's more laced with astonishment. "There can't… I thought..." and he falters.

His words are almost... too astonished. As if he were near-certain that this place wasn't going to be affected.

"I don't know," she says, and yet something else stirs in Hera's gut. Is it an earthquake? It could be. And yet…

It's _different._ It's not _just_ underneath them. It feels like everything around them's _shaking,_ everything's _moving,_ everything's on the verge of _collapse,_ and it hasn't quite felt so _whole,_ so _all-encompassing,_ so _strong…_

"I feel like it may be… different," she says, not daring to say anything else.

It's the beginning of the end.

Kiernan grips Hera's arm. Hera lets out a breath, grips her sword tighter, and she tries to look around, for rocks or trees or _someplace_ that isn't affected by the quakes, but they're _everywhere._

(Everywhere, _everywhere,_ no, not _everywhere._ She can't do _anything_ if they're everywhere, she can't protect Kiernan if they're everywhere, she can't… she can't…)

And suddenly, she's lifted off her feet.

She yells, torn away from Kiernan's grasp, and her sword falls to the wayside. Hera slams to the ground, as the world quivers all around her and there are _new_ shakes, another layer upon the all-encompassing layer. But it's _different._ It comes from the ground. A dozen choruses and a dozen clops. A stampede so profound.

Oh.

_Oh, no._

Her eyes jerk up and Hera stares at the sneer of a mutt.

It's a… _thing._ Hera knows that mutts are typically grotesque, yet it is not grotesque at all, for there is no flesh heaped onto its bones: _no,_ all it _is_ is bone and cartilage and ivory, curling around a ribcage and then drawing out into a spine and twisting in circles that resemble a _neck_ and then forming into a _bonehead_ that is supposed to be a skull. In the shape of a _horse,_ and yet it's _not,_ because there are so many _things_ contorted on there, ligaments and tendons and jawlines that look distinctly… human.

No.

The _screeches_ are too loud, so much like _cackles_ in themselves, and there's a dozen of them, galloping furiously in the horizon muddled with amber-orange shafts bleeding into gore-red, and so many, _too_ many, and she'll be facing an _army,_ she and Kiernan, just the two of them, and she doesn't know _why—_

Oh, of course.

Mutts.

It's the finale.

Of course it is.

A noise of an explosion, a _boom,_ so distinct yet so far away ricochets in Hera's head. All the world halts. Despite the _mutt,_ she looks above: and realises that the barrier is no more.

And then chaos explodes.

* * *

**Placements.**

**9th Place**. Victor Vernina. D8M. [Killed by Dior Marini.]

 **8th Place.** Dior Marini. D1F. [Killed by Sadie Rendevez.]


	26. The Corpses and The Survivors - Day 5.

**Rhodos McNamara. District 4.**

The Arena meets its reckoning and it is deafening.

Explosions crest over the force-field overhead, beginning from the bottom of the horizon and working up, every new layer screeches a defying scream before it is devoured.

_This is the rebellion's awakening._

Rhodos can't believe it. But it _is,_ it's _happening..._

A hovercraft soars above him _,_ and it sows a row of goosebumps upon his skin.

(He hasn't really _believed_ it before, not _really,_ not until this moment. Not until he stares up overhead at the gleaming warhead of metal, not until the earth shudders and rocks squeal and animals screech, as if an avalanche is about to transform life into death itself.)

"Yes!" Daniel laughs, and it's a holler and a cry at once, a revelry for the Capitol's desolation, a celebration for their desperate salvation.

For the world crushed under the Districts' fingertips, and there is _elation_ to be found in their celebration.

"It's happening!" Ryleigh cries, and her voice is so jubilant amid the screeching roars; of trees toppling, grounds tearing, skies rocking, winds rattling.

The Arena is falling.

They've _won._

(And that's how it should end. Here, with Rhodos McNamara and the Threes heading to their victory, successful in their total rebellion. So ardent their measures; so delightful their ends. No cares that require any of their attendance; there is _nothing_ that matters to any of them, anymore.)

… except for Althea Ivory.

He has his District partner. Rhodos has _Althea Ivory_ and she's left him. Gone in the other direction, away from their _destination_ (their _extraction point_ , that's how Daniel's put it)... and with the Arena shattering before his eyes he doesn't _know_ what'll happen to her, only that the sky and the earth are _breaking_ and…

(... and she might _die._ Althea Ivory can so easily _die_ in the chaos that pores from rebellion. It doesn't _matter_ how strong, how powerful, how _good_ she is with her spears and her knives. She'll be swept in the rebellion's giddy desecration. She'll be a victim of _vultures_.)

(And even if she makes it through _alive,_ what'll happen to her then, after the Capitol troops storm the Arena and seize all that remains? Will they put a bullet through her head, will they _capture_ her, what would the Capitol do…?)

"Rhodos!" and he barely hears his name, amidst the groans of a world at its knees. "Are you coming, or what?"

_Is he?_

He _should_ be. Sense tells him to: _go with the Threes, abandon Althea, chances are she's dead anyway, chances are that whatever you do won't matter anyway, she made her choice, you made your choice, just accept it and don't waste it, don't risk it, just leave and let her die in the heavens of rebellion, just leave and let yourself live in the havens of victory…_

(Would you really risk the _world_ for a life?)

… it's risky. Oh, of _course_ it's risky. The person Rhodos was before he'd volunteered wouldn't have ever _consider_ this. He'd bow his head, he'd nod along, he'll follow with the word of his parents and his trainers, he'll let them strip all his passions and desires from his skin, he'll let everything he loves be _ripped_ away from him, his _music_ his _life_ his _everything,_ all of it to the rest of the world's wishes—

No.

He isn't about to let his District partner _die._

Not when she can still survive.

Rhodos grips his spear, and stands against the tides of torrential war before him. He turns towards _madness_ and malice and smothers the panic shaking in his chest.

He takes a step. And he's sure he hears his name - _"Rhodos!",_ they're yelling - but he isn't _hearing_ , not above the archaic _chaos_ abound, made of whirling debris and cracking branches and amber trees croaking at their knees.

"Go on without me!" he calls back, above the screeches of the metal engines in the heavens above, above the wails of the world underneath him.

It's a _bad_ idea. It's a _stupid_ idea, and his old self would be _screaming_ at him for even trying, _what are you doing, why aren't you_ _ **doing**_ _what they want you to do, please, Rhodos, just—just listen to them, obey, be complaisant, be acquiescent, they're trying to_ _ **save**_ _you, why can't you just—_

… _listen, behave, be what others want you to be, don't protest, don't think, smile, go along with what others say. Be what they want you to be, listen to your parents, please them, do what they want you to do, suppress your ambitions, your desires, your goals, don't_ _ **be**_ _yourself, don't_ _ **choose**_ _for yourself, don't_ _ **be**_ _anything than their wishes, their will—_

For once in his life, Rhodos decides for himself.

* * *

**Althea Ivory. District 4.**

The world descends around her, and the only thing Althea Ivory can do is _curse._

She's _fighting,_ sure, but is it a _fight_ if it's futile, is it a fight if it's _fruitless—_ because she's cursing, more than anything, _fucking hell fucking hell fucking_ _ **hell**_ _is this really fucking happening right now,_ and her throat's dry with a laugh, _seriously you didn't have to do this now,_ and she's cursing, _fuck you fuck you fuck you all—_

It's almost _laughable_ because it's so damn apparent that this isn't the work of any Gamemaker. No, it's rebellion _._

(Rebellion. _Rebellion_ that she didn't think would succeed, _rebellion_ that she didn't _think_ would be this _grand_ , rebellion that she didn't think would be _real_. For all that rose in her mind when _rebellion_ came was _the 55th Games,_ the _55th Games_ and its ridiculous tragedy and the 55th Games and she'd thought this would be a _parody,_ not _this,_ not whatever _this_ is...)

Annihilation.

Althea _fucked up_. She's stranded amid shrapnel, a dozen knives and a dozen blades driving their way into her skin - a _bloodletting -_ and no matter how much she _staggers,_ no matter how she shields herself with an arm round her neck and an arm over her head, she won't be able to prevent…

… her inevitable end.

Tragic. So _tragic,_ so _ironic,_ because in her search for the Victor's crown, in her search for Kani's arms, she ended up _here,_ needlessly, when she could've followed Rhodos and been guaranteed life.

A hollow laugh tightens in her throat. It winds and rewinds itself again-once-again, through the bleariness of her eyes and the shake of _something_ in her breath, _oh, no, of course, why wouldn't it… why wouldn't it end like this…_

( _I'm sorry,_ is what she wishes to say, _I'm—I'm sorry, Kani, you've warned me about the Games, you didn't want me to lose myself, and I knew you loved me, but I knew you feared, and… you said I could, and I could, I_ _ **can**_ _, I've made it far, but I didn't expect… I could never have foreseen... )_

Another end.

Something bitter rouses her lips, and Althea lets out a shaking laugh. Through the flurry of madness that blitzes her eyes she lets herself see _Kani Fairchild,_ standing against the sandstorms of her Games, and through the chaos she lets herself see a dozen tributes die the same deaths as she, just so she won't be so _lonely,_ and through the blizzard of chaos she sees a _figure,_ in the distance, _running,_ running...

A _figure_. Her heart _leaps,_ because that _—perhaps—_

And then they grow closer and _closer_ and then the noise that run undercurrent in the grounds _heightens_ , and Althea _sees_ and she realises that it isn't two feet but four that make the grounds, that it isn't a human but a stampede of nightmarish fiends advancing on her, made of brittle bone and malformed into their grotesque own.

_The Gamemakers aren't done with you yet._

A laugh _almost_ strikes her. Because the stampede's so _loud_ and just an earthquake isn't enough to tear her flesh apart, oh, no, they need the scrooges from hell to rip her flesh and break her bones and render her to dust.

And Althea…

Althea gives up.

She gives up because there's nothing else to do. She gives up because she might as well let their grinning jaws sink into her body, might as well let those creatures ravish her like exuberant hyenas. She gives up because there _isn't_ anything she can do, because there _isn't_ anything she can use to get out of here. She gives up because this was her _mistake_ and this is her _retribution._

(She gives up, because _trying_ is hopeless. She gives up, because she is purposeless. She gives up, because there isn't a reason for her _life_ here, because even her _volunteering_ was for other people: to show them she isn't _weak._ Because she must've valued their opinions in sterling and gold to put the value of her being in their fingertips. She gives up because she's going to die.)

All she can do now is wait; wait for their jaws to kiss her neck; for their grins to gleefully trail their way down, as they tear away strips of her skin. Wait for their teeth to mar her with love bites as they rip chunks from her flesh… _you're mine,_ _you're dead… I'm your end._

"Althea!"

Althea's eyes jerk. And amidst the blitz she sees a _person_. And there's a _yell,_ and the voice is so _strong,_ so present, so _powerful_ —

It's Rhodos. _Rhodos McNamara_ is struggling towards her, his eyes open and his hand reaching, and he's yelling words, he's _gesturing_ towards her. It's almost incomprehensible, it's almost _incoherent,_ but it doesn't _matter,_ doesn't _matter_ because he's _here,_ it's her and him and he's _here_ (why is he here isn't he supposed to be with the Threes—)

"You came back," she gasps, barely a breath.

Rhodos nods, once, twice, vigorously. She hears him yell "Yes!" through the calamity, amid the tides of rocks and debris and metal that crash round them all, amid the carnal shrieks of the mutts that pound, closer, closer still, not even a foot away, they're _so close_ to them, amid the _madness_ that dances such a gallimaufry in the Arena—

"Let's go."

He holds out a hand. Rhodos McNamara holds out his hand to Althea Ivory, and Althea—

Althea takes it.

* * *

**Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.**

The mutts come.

The mutts come.

The mutts come, and Kiernan Alcraiz hasn't been more _terrified._

He doesn't know what those creatures _are._ They're _things_ that rose from graves to exist in their wear; a jangle of bones, their _bones_ that are so much like human _remains,_ bones that make him stifle a cry for the Gamemakers have meddled with something sacred, robbed the dead's resting places and stolen their bones and bent it all into something else, for their _creatures_ something else…

(... Maeve's body never returned home.)

_Dontthinkdontthinkdontthink!_

And he forces his mind away, forces his mind away to _physicalphysical physical sensations,_ but it's no help, Kiernan can't _breathe_ , cause of the madness and the screeches and screams and the _dust,_ the dust, it's too _much_ —

_Eyes, eyes up, force them open, you can do it, see—_

He yanks his eyes upon, despite how much it _stings,_ despite the sob that coaxes out of his throat at the thousand _needles_ that pound in his sockets. The air ripples a roar above him, and there's a _hovercraft,_ a fucking _hovercraft_ already waiting for their deaths.

He quells the helpless laugh in his chest.

_No, stop, don't think, doesn't mean you're dead yet, look, search, see, there has to be a way—_

He sees Hera Dalenka. Struggling to fight off the mutt that screeches and bucks and cranes its head down, so intent on _devouring_ her…

"No," he says, a breath out of his throat, and despite the _pain_ his eyes roam around, he needs a _weapon a sword a something,_ but all he has is his dagger, _that'll do, that'll do—_

One slash against bone _._ And it does nothing, of course it does _nothing,_ it's fucking _bone,_ and the thing's _eyes_ rivet on him and flare and Kiernan's breaths short, because, because—

(Aren't mutts just so _typical_ of an Alcraiz?)

It _slams_ into him. Kiernan's breath chokes out of his lungs and he opens his mouth and gasps but he isn't getting any _air,_ the force of the blow's still in his lungs, he can't _breathe_ and he's about to _die_ , it's gonna devour him alive—

(—just like how it destroyed Maeve, quashing her _madness_ and her ecstatic-happiness with a breath. That girl that reached for the sky, rent nothing but a glassy-eyed corpse, staring so blankly at the heavens.)

The mutt tosses its great head. Quivers shake in its bones, _rapturous,_ and its rattling chorus is a cacophonous melody to the broken world's medley.

Kiernan Alcraiz expects to die. Yet he does not close his eyes. If he's going to _die,_ then, _well,_ he won't _die_ like he's fucking terrified, he'll look them in the _eye_ , he'll be _brave,_ he'll show them they can't _break_ him.

Yet the mutt looks not at Kiernan Alcraiz, no, they look _away,_ towards—

A girl. Rigid in the rippling world. He hadn't even _seen_ her anywhere before, but she's _here,_ stolid and here in his sister's death-place. Upon her face she wears a petrified mask _,_ immobilised in terror. Devoid of a weapon, devoid of aggression, devoid of _anything_ and everything to defend herself with.

And the mutt advances and the clops ricochet in his ear and Kiernan can't _think,_ can't _feel,_ all he can do's watch in shock and watch her drop and _fall_ and sob and rot—

But then the girl slams into the ground, _pushed_ aside, and then there's a boy, a boy breathing so hard and he's looking straight-on at the creature, _bring it on,_ but he's just as hopeless because he doesn't have a _weapon._

Kiernan can only watch and wait as the mutt's socketless eyes gleam, as it lets out a birdlike scream and burrows its grinning jaws into the boy's face. Slick-wet flesh tears away from his scalp and leaves skull. Teeth rankles his eyeballs and leaves hollow sockets of his eyes. Its touch melts his mouth from his jaws and leaves an eerie-toothed grin in its wake. The boy's screams mingle with the creature's cackle as the cannon echoes in the crescendo of madness.

_Boom._

There's another scream. The mutt's eyes rivet on the girl again _,_ with a choke in her breath and a cry in her eyes, and she's yelling, words and sounds and all else incoherent, pain and curses and sobs, and Kiernan can only watch as the mutt turns on her—

(Her cannon still screams into the night.)

_No._

And the realisation is hot and heavy as it is sick, _no, no,_ he's going to _die_ here. Because just that one mutt's _killed_ both the Threes left, and there's an _army_ that charges down at them from the rising-red horizon, and he can't…

He can't survive.

(Did they script this end? Did they want it to be just the same as Maeve's—a breathless death sent because she was too _wild,_ too _frenzied,_ because she needed to be reminded that she was still in the Gamemakers' grasp? So he'll die here, too, because he'd finally decided to retort, because _fuck them,_ because he's now seeing who the real enemy is?)

(Did they _want_ him to die here, in Maeve's death-place all the same, another Alcraiz in the grave, because it's _poetic,_ because it's _symbolic,_ because they'd quite like to _destroy_ the Alcraiz family, more than they've already destructed themselves, why _won't_ they just, why _don't_ they just…)

He lets out a breath and he shuts his eyes.

No. No, that isn't happening. He'd already let the Capitol write his tale, when he'd volunteered. He won't let them write it again.

(And if Kiernan Alcraiz dies, then he dies _fighting,_ he dies _trying_ to survive. He dies himself; not as _Kiernan Alcraiz,_ his _cuckoo sister's fucked-up brother,_ not as _Kiernan Alcraiz,_ barely a teenager, not as _Kiernan Alcraiz,_ so weak, so _mad,_ so indignant, so useless, so pathetic, so stupid, so ridiculous, so _afraid_.)

He is afraid. To say that he isn't afraid of death would be a lie (... one he'd indulged in, far too many times because brittle and scoff and sarcasm can only help decorum when you don't _want_ them to what you really feel.)

He's afraid. But he won't let them just _kill_ another Alcraiz. No, he won't _let_ it happen. They've made a legacy of his sister's rotted corpse. It's not _happening_ again.

(Her voice is so lilt, so full and so _giggly_ in his head. He's chasing her through the golden forests, lit with ember gases and amber flourishes, the world at their disposal, their running breaths pulsing in their hearts. Playing _together_ : never play-pretend.)

( _I believe in you,_ and it is a soft susurration in her lips, _you can do it,_ and it's as bittersweet as it is bitter.)

Kiernan chokes. He chokes back his _tears_ and chokes back a breath and levels his eyes at the burning world.

He'll survive. He'll survive for his sister _._ For Maeve Alcraiz.

And the shrieks of the hovercraft are _increasing_ and the winds are going _madder_ and the mutts are coming faster, and he steels himself, he _prepares._ Kiernan Alcraiz looks ahead at the cresting masses of roaring creatures forged in pain and ghosts, and he prepares for this final _fight,_ for this final end.

But then he's pushed _aside,_ and he's knocked _behind._ And dimly his mind flickers, half a laugh ready in his breath, _wow, they came fast, didn't even—didn't even stand a fucking chance—_

He opens his eyes. But it is not a mutt that stares back at him.

He sees Hera Dalenka's back. She has a sword in her hand and she watches the waves of mutts rise and fall and gallop and screech, like doomsday, arriving.

She turns around, and a sad smile twinges her lips.

"... H-hera?" he barely manages to get out of his throat. "W-what…"

Her eyes glimmer.

"I'll take this," she says, softly. Her head lifts, and she nods to the hovercraft above, and that's when Kiernan Alcraiz first sees the _ladder,_ dangling and swaying to the winds of madness that wrap this _chaos_ in its grasp.

"Go. Save yourself."

* * *

**Hera Dalenka. District 2.**

She holds her sword tight.

(That is what they've always taught her to do, in the Academy. _Hera, hold still. Hera, keep the blade straight. Yes, grip the handle. No, not like that. You won't be able to kill like that._ )

There is something about a sword that she appreciates. It is _strong,_ for one, so boundlessly powerful; she is proficient at wielding a blade, and anyone who is proficient at _anything_ would come to love the arts of their craft themselves. A sword is heavy, and it reminds her of the weight she bears on her hands.

(Since the Games, the sword's weight becomes weight that entails taking a life. Her blade is soaked in blood, and every time she touches the handle, she _remembers._ Even if it isn't truly needed, really; she sees the dead well enough in her head.)

And the weight of a sword is _real._ It isn't fantastical, like drugs that would catapult her so _high_ that she reaches beyond the heavens. It's real when it grounds her in misery, always in the aftermath of her high, when she returns back to the _Academy_ and _training,_ as she holsters a sword in her hand and smears a plastic smile on her lips.

But it also brings her _life._ It gives her _life_ when she slashes and hits and _succeeds,_ and her parents marvel by, and the trainer's eyes go wide, and she feels a perfect smile draw across her lips. It's a dance and it's a stab and it's a _flurry_ , and she feels the thrum of _energy_ in her fingers, of _control,_ of _power,_ of a _grounding_. And if Hera closes her eyes and _thinks_ and _dreams_ , then she'll be back in the training centre and she'll be slicing _bodies,_ but it's different, because she won't be decapitating _dreams,_ won't be killing _delights_ , won't be murdering _desires,_ and she's…

… she's alive.

There is no _need_ to hold back here. Hera Dalenka is in an arena of madness, and she does not need to _stop_. For she is not murdering _children,_ she is not murdering _lives,_ all that towers before her is bone and laughter and _lies_ and she does not need to atone for that. The Gamemakers' contrivances do not deserve reverence.

(And there is a shrill in her veins, a feeling that she'd felt when she was no more than eight, nine, still bright-eyed and unknowing of the world. When she was still a mere child, only a dim understanding of what the Hunger Games truly meant in her brain, who all too _enjoyed_ the feeling of training and the _fun_ it gave there.)

And it is _that_ feeling that surges and wraps and squeezes her veins, that pores through bone and trills in her chest. It is _joyous,_ it is _euphoric,_ and it is a feeling she _controls,_ with every one more hack through bone and every one more mutt that convulses to the ground.

Two, four, _five,_ and Hera lets her instincts take over.

(This is what she is: a perfect Career, a killing machine, a winning smile on her lips and a body that is flawless. And such a figure was synonymous with the crown.)

(Yet: the _crown_ was not synonymous with _desire_ , and Hera has never really wanted the crown.)

She tosses a look back. Kiernan Alcraiz ascends up the ladder. He's _struggling,_ of course, in the wild winds and the virulent _chaos,_ who _wouldn't._ But he's making it _up,_ rung-by-rung, and that's _enough,_ as long as he keeps climbing _up,_ that's _enough—_

A mutt leaps for the ladder.

Hera bites back a scream. It tangles its hooves with the rungs, and the entire ladder _shudders,_ so _violently._ Kiernan yells.

She _runs,_ and she hacks at the creature, and it feels like _forever_ until its grasp loosens on the rungs, until it falls down onto the ground, in a spillage of bone and cartilage and dust. Hera looks up, her heart in her throat, and _hopes,_ please, _please—_

Kiernan clings on. He's still _there,_ he hasn't _fallen,_ and Hera lets a quiet breath out.

But there is no _reprieve,_ not yet.

There are _figures,_ she makes out, that grapple through the flurry of limbs and ligaments that engulf the Arena. She sees Rhodos McNamara and Althea Ivory, fighting in the distance. And Hera decapitates skulls from spines and she makes a _path,_ even as their bites sink into her ribs, even as they try to _claim_ her.

"Go!" she cries, after she carves a _road_ from the cluster of creatures. Rhodos looks at her, and his eyes are so _frenzied_ , and she's not sure if he _recognises_ her, at first, but then he nods. Althea Ivory is more taut, but she looks at her, _respect_ ingrained in her face.

They go. Up the ladder and up into the hovercraft.

(She hopes Kiernan hasn't fallen.)

Hera stands at the bottom of the ladder. All of the mutts _encroach_ on her, and she should _go,_ she _needs_ to, if she wants to _live._

But she sees a lone figure. _Eight,_ she thinks, that fights her way through the madness. Hera should _leave_ her behind, should _save_ herself, and yet…

Two more mutts surge at her from right and left. Hera ducks down, rolls through the gaping hole left in the centre, and they crash into one another. Her sword-arm is so fluid when she decapitates both their heads, because fuck, maybe she couldn't save the _Threes,_ but at least she can help Eight here, maybe.

But _exhaustion_ clings to her in beads and weighs her down in its wear _._ Hera may be a _Career,_ but she isn't _inhuman._ She's… tired.

She still has the vial.

… maybe for adrenaline. She _should._ She's drenched in sweat, she's _panting_ , her limbs are _screaming,_ it hasn't been more _excruciating._ She should.

She lifts, and she's about to rip off the cap, she's about to let it all in her body, its parasites and its pervasiveness, but she _needs_ it—

A mutt rears.

She slams the vial down on the ground. It shatters, a dozen _stars_ sprawling across dirt. Hera grabs a shard and digs it into the creature's eye socket. It screeches, and the glass crushes between her fingers, and pours, like little diamond pieces into black oblivion. The mutt shrieks, as if _blinded,_ and it tosses its head and lets out a whine and goes down on its knees—

She raises her blade from the ground. One swing and its skull cracks on the dirt ground, tinged with a coppery red. In the corner of her eyes, she sees Eight girl run _._

Hera lifts her blade and she _attacks._ She fells creature after creature and she doesn't _stop,_ even though she knows they're coming en masse, even though she knows that they're irreverent, _immortal_ , even though she knows they won't stop anytime.

(This is the truth, here: Hera Dalenka does not have _time._ She's practically _drowning_ in this crazed abundance of _mutts._ But the rest of _them_ and their _escape_ is on the back of her mind, and that's all she _needs,_ cares for, now. For _them,_ for _Rhodos_ for _Althea_ for _Kiernan_ , for _them_ , for their _survival_.)

(… and, if she lets herself think, maybe this is retribution. Maybe this redemption for her _wrongs._ If she saves a life, or two, maybe it'll make up for the lives she's taken. And perhaps that is true, yet it is also not: nothing can replace the dead.)

But for the first time, in who _knows_ how long…

Hera's in control.

(Of _herself_ of her _life_ of her _destiny,_ of her _desires_ of her _wants,_ of her _choices_ and of her _fate_. She is no longer submerged in the clouds; she is no longer victim to the decisions of her parents, to the whims of the Arena. She is _herself_. Hera Dalenka is wholly herself.)

And a smile is on her lips, even as the mutts rip. She reaches for the ladder, even as her vision dims, even though she _knows_ it isn't enough. Her hands grasp the rungs, even as their jaws enclose on her arms. And the smile remains, even as her last fingers leave the ladder, even as the mutts drag her by her skin and spine, even as she thuds to the ground.

_(... I made a choice. I—I helped.)_

Hera goes down with the Arena that collapses inward on itself. Hera goes down with mutts that gorge on her, that guzzle her and gobble her and gluttonize her, yet all she feels is the bitter smile by her lips.

_(Wasn't so… wasn't so voiceless, after all.)_

* * *

**Madison Saros. Hovercraft.**

She is alive.

(Beyond measure. She should not be alive. After all: _Brynn_ is dead. _Scott_ is dead. _Maeve_ is dead. Madison Saros had killed herself.)

Madison Saros should not be alive.

(She isn't sure why she's brought here. No, she knows: Cynane's taken one look at her on the hospital bed, and her lips curled. "Take her," she said, to the two troops assisting her. "She'll be our _asset_.")

And they haul the survivors from the Arena. But it is not just _a_ Arena. It is _their_ Arena.

(Where all had perished. Where Maeve was razed by a mutt. Where Scott had been stabbed by a spear. Where Jordyn was killed in an explosion. Where Madison broke apart.)

She watches them arrive. Body after body. Emerging from the ashes and the golden flecks. Upon ladders and steel. Like corpses brought-alive.

They're uncertain. Unsteady. Helped onto the craft by troops. Josiah and Lindsay. They're two she'd met, after she woke up from her catatonic slumber.

_("Are you okay… can you hear me?")_

_("Say your name.")_

_("Look at me, please.")_

And of course: when the survivors' eyes rivet onto her, they freeze. As if they've seen a ghost.

(... not wrong.)

Weariness presses down on her back. She isn't sure why she's here. She still hasn't yet… recovered.

(She knows why she's here. Jordyn had asked for her. Jordyn Moriau, the girl that _died_ in the Games, the girl that desired so much of her life. That girl whose eyes never left the wires in the pipe-bomb for long. Madison's never expected to see another _survivor._ )

(And she's here, taut, tense, and they're together, but not quite with each _other,_ not quite _reunited_.)

She tilts her head. She observes the other survivors instead. Those now in the hovercraft. They're strangers, not quite. For she knows a little too much about them. For they know a little too much about her.

"I know you," says a Career.

(They've all seen her. Broken-down. Beaten. So _exhausted._ Death-seeking, death- _sent..._ )

Madison's lips twinge at Althea Ivory. "I know."

She wonders what they see. She's tired, yes. She is worn-down, yes. She is in _purgatory,_ she is in-between, she is not quite _anywhere_. She is almost a revenant.

She wonders what they see.

They shift. Uncomfortable, uncertain. Like waves. Transient, tentative. Madison doesn't blame them. It is, after all, _new._

(When has _rebellion_ ever succeeded?)

"Madison Saros."

It is a child. Barely a teen, that speaks. Her name rasps against his throat. Just one glance at his blond-angelic hair, slit with dirt, and his _eyes,_ rocking in seas, tell her all she needs to know.

"Yes," she says, softly, to the last Alcraiz left. "That's me."

(And she looks away. Because if she does look at him. Then she'll see too much blue.)

They're quiet once again. She doesn't blame them. She listens to the whirrs of the hovercraft and the frizzes of radio-comms and she lets herself be awash in all. Because her head pounds still, her eyes are a blear still, and her heart beats still, despite...

(... being broken by the night.)

Madison listens to the whirrs of the hovercraft. She does not speak.

"... completely down, set course for coordinates C, five-oh-twelve, leading to Thirteen..."

"... accept the command, turn way, go..."

"... survivors extracted..."

"..."

"... more commands to commence. Reporting from the headquarters, this is officer Gore… _fzzt._ "

Silence.

"What—what's this _for?_ "

Pause. She looks up to Rhodos McNamara. He gazes between the panels, and the stations, and the people, and to their leader.

Cynane Rendevez.

Assuredness rests in Cynane's poise and her crossed arms. Amusement presses at her lips.

"Is that even a question? This is the revolution, child. We're heading to our destination. Where we began our operations."

"We're the Vultures," Jordyn supplies.

"And we're tributes."

"No," Cynane says, with ease. "Not all of you."

 _No, indeed._ Not all of them.

"... not Three, not Five, not Six, not Eight, not Nine." Rhodos looks up at Cynane. "They were your rebels, weren't they?"

Cynane's lips part. "Yes. They that are told to survive," she says, and her words are tight. "They were our forces. Our source of information. So we could replicate what happened last Games, with the momentary _destruction_ of the force-field."

"You were here to save them."

Cynane cocks her head at Rhodos. "Yes. None of you were meant to live. None of you _Careers_ were."

Terseness stays in the hovercraft. It is awkward as it is uncomfortable. It's tangled in the air, between the remaining Careers and the rebel forces themselves.

Until Sadie Rendevez lets out a laugh.

"Of course," she says, far too easily, and it's like she shrugs off a tide with her shoulders. "Course it's the fuckin' Careers you save still. Couldn't have saved Ry. Couldn't have saved Dan. Couldn't have saved Fasc, couldn't have saved Herman, couldn't 'ave saved fuckin' _Vic_ , gods alive, but you save _them_. Yknow, the very people that killed _our_ people."

"Sadie."

Sadie doesn't say another word. But she twists her head sideways, and she clenches her arms across her chest, and there's a bowed grin by her lips, quite wretched.

"Fine. What now?"

 _What now_ , indeed.

(That is a question she'd asked herself, after she woke to the beeps. After she inhaled and her breaths suffocated her lungs and she realised she wasn't as _dead_ as she thought she was. After she realised that everybody she'd ever _known_ was dead, Brynn, too _ruminative_ , Jordyn, too _ambitious_ , Scott, too _kind_ , Maeve, too _unfettered_. After she woke so alone to her friends all but whittled bone, after she was left so shattered in her stagnant laughter, after she was left so desperate for a respite.)

They're all watching her.

Madison Saros. Weary. Tired. Barely alive.

(They want an answer from her. They want her to call a rallying cry. They want her to say that they'll survive. Tell them that they'll _thrive,_ that they'll revive lives, that they'll avenge those that died in suicide, those that made their sacrifices, those that met their demises.)

Her smile is so bitter. Her throat is so scorched. Her words are entirely too caustic.

(She's tired of delusions. Tired of grandiose illusions. And yes, perhaps they need deserved retribution, perhaps they need absolution, perhaps they need a thousand executions. But they're still _dead._ )

Her words taste entirely too bitter.

"... I don't know. Who's ready for a revolution, then?"

* * *

**FIN. PART 2.**

* * *

**Placements.**

**7th Place.** Daniel Danes. D3M. [Killed by mutts.]

 **6th Place.** Ryleigh Retovan. D3F. [Killed by mutts.]

 **5th Place.** Hera Dalenka. D2F. [Killed by mutts.]

 **4th Place.** Not found.

 **3rd Place.** Not found.

 **2nd Place.** Not found.

 **1st Place.** Not found.


End file.
